She was still holding his hand. He hadn't let go, and neither had she, and somewhere in the last minute the silence had shifted from the kind that followed confessions to the kind that settled around them like a second blanket. Her thumb traced the edge of his palm, slow and absent, and he watched it move and tried not to think about how badly he wanted to kiss her again.

"You're thinking too loud," she said, not looking up.

"I'm not thinking at all."

Her mouth curved. "Liar."

He was. He was thinking about how the lamplight caught the side of her face and made her skin look like it was glowing. He was thinking about her hand in his and how it felt like it belonged there. He was thinking about the word home and how he meant it when he said it and how it still scared him because he'd never meant anything that much in his life.

The clock on the wall ticked. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping across the ceiling for a moment before disappearing.

"Jess."

"Mm?"

"Can I—" He stopped. The words tangled somewhere in his chest, and he didn't know how to finish the sentence without sounding like he was asking for something she might not want to give.

She lifted her head, her dark eyes finding his. "Can you what?"

He looked at her mouth. Then looked away. "Nothing. Never mind."

She was quiet for a beat. Then she shifted, turning toward him on the couch, pulling her legs up so her knee pressed against his thigh. The movement brought her closer, and he could smell her shampoo again, something floral and soft, mixing with the warmth of her skin.

"Riley." She said his name like she was tasting it. "You can ask me anything."

His throat felt tight. "Can I kiss you?"

The words came out rough, almost a whisper, and he felt stupid the second they left his mouth because they'd already kissed, they'd already said I love you, and asking felt like backtracking, like he was admitting he didn't know what they were or what he was allowed to do.

But her expression softened. Her hand came up, her fingers brushing the side of his face, and she leaned in until her forehead rested against his.

"Yes," she said. "You can always kiss me."

He closed the distance slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. His hand found the side of her neck, his thumb resting against her jaw, and when his lips met hers it was soft and deliberate, not hungry like the first time, but something else—something that felt like a question being answered before he knew how to ask it.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt at his shoulder. The kiss deepened, her mouth parting under his, and he felt her breath catch, felt the small sound she made against his lips, and it did something to his chest that he couldn't name.

When they broke apart, she was smiling. A real smile, not the theatrical one she used for auditions or the nervous one she wore when she was performing. This one reached her eyes and made them gleam in the low light.

"Hi," she said.

"Hi."

"That was—" She paused, her fingers still twisted in his shirt. "That was nice."

"Just nice?"

"Shut up." She laughed, pushing his shoulder lightly. "You know what I mean."

He did. He also didn't want to stop, but the clock was edging past eleven, and she'd had a long day, and he could feel the tiredness settling into his own bones even if he didn't want to admit it.

"You should get some sleep," he said.

She blinked. "What?"

"You've got that callback tomorrow. Or the day after. Whatever it is." He rubbed the back of his neck. "You need rest."

She stared at him for a long moment. Then her smile turned sly, and she tilted her head in a way that made her chin-length bob swing forward. "You're putting me to bed?"

The words landed somewhere low in his stomach. "I mean—if you want to. You can stay on the couch. Or the bed. I'll take the couch. I don't mind."

"Riley." She said his name like he was being ridiculous. "I'm not letting you sleep on the couch in your own apartment."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine." She shifted, her hand sliding down his arm until her fingers laced through his. "We shared the bed last night. We can do it again. Unless you're uncomfortable."

He wasn't uncomfortable. That was the problem. He was very, very comfortable, and that scared him more than anything.

"I don't want to make things weird," he said.

She laughed, soft and genuine. "We've already kissed and said 'I love you.' I think weird left the building a while ago."

He couldn't argue with that.

She stood, stretching her arms above her head, and he caught a glimpse of her midriff where her shirt rode up. He looked away quickly, his face heating, and she either didn't notice or pretended not to.

"Coming?" She held out her hand.

He took it.

She led him through the doorway into the bedroom, her fingers still laced with his, and he followed because he didn't know what else to do with himself. The bed was unmade from the morning, the sheets tangled, Jessica's duffel bag still sitting open on the floor with scripts spilling out.

"You've probably got stuff to do in the morning," she said, dropping his hand and turning to face him. "I don't want to keep you up."

"You're not keeping me up."

"Good." She sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at him. "Then sit down."

He sat. The mattress dipped under his weight, and for a moment they were just two people on the edge of a bed, the silence stretching between them, full of everything they'd said and everything they hadn't.

She reached out, her hand finding his knee. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For letting me stay. For saying what you said earlier. For—" She gestured vaguely. "All of it."

He covered her hand with his. "You say that too much, you know?”

"I know. But I need to." She squeezed his knee. "I've been running on adrenaline and panic for the last two days. The callback. The eviction. Everything. And then I showed up here, and you just—" Her voice wavered. "You made it okay."

His chest ached. "Jess."

"I'm not trying to be dramatic." She laughed, a little wet. "I just—I needed you to know. That you did that. That you made it okay."

He didn't know what to say. Words felt too small. So he did the only thing that made sense: he leaned forward and pressed his lips to her forehead, letting them linger there, feeling her breath warm against his neck.

"I love you," he said against her skin.

She shuddered. "I love you too."

They stayed like that for a long moment, his forehead resting against hers, her hand still on his knee, the lamp from the living room spilling a rectangle of golden light across the bedroom floor. The clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed. Everything else was quiet.

She pulled back first, her eyes bright, her smile a little shaky. "Okay. Bedtime. For real this time."

He nodded, even though he didn't want to move, didn't want to break the spell that had settled around them.

She stood, reaching for the hem of her shirt, and he quickly looked away, his face burning. He heard the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of her jeans hitting the floor, and then the creak of the bed as she climbed in.

"You can look now," she said, and there was amusement in her voice.

He turned. She was under the covers, her head on the pillow, her hair fanned out against the fabric. She was wearing one of his shirts—when had she gotten one of his shirts?—and it was too big for her, the collar slipping off one shoulder.

"That's mine," he said.

"Borrowed it this morning. Hope you don't mind."

He didn't mind. He didn't mind at all.

"Your turn," she said, patting the space beside her. "Get in."

He stood, fumbled with his jeans, and slid under the covers in his boxers and the t-shirt he'd worn all day. The sheets were cool against his skin, and she was warm beside him, her body radiating heat through the thin fabric of the borrowed shirt.

She turned on her side, facing him. The light from the living room caught her face, casting half of it in shadow, and her eyes were dark and soft and looking at him like he was something precious.

"Hey," she whispered.

"Hey."

"I'm glad I came here."

"Me too."

She reached out, her fingers finding his chest over the heart. He felt the weight of them, light and warm, and his hand came up to cover hers, pressing her palm flat against him.

"Can I sleep like this?" she asked.

"Like what?"

"Like this." She shifted closer, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder, her arm draping across his chest. "Is this okay?"

His arm came around her, pulling her close. Her hair smelled like her shampoo again, and her hand was warm where it rested over his heart, and he could feel her breath against his neck, slow and even.

"Yeah," he said, his voice rough. "This is perfect."

She sighed, a soft, contented sound, and he felt her body relax against his. The tension that had been coiled in her shoulders bled away, and she melted into him like she'd been waiting for this all day.

The lamp from the living room cast long shadows across the ceiling. The clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed. And Riley lay there, holding her, feeling her heartbeat against his ribs, and thought that this was what home felt like.

He didn't know how long they lay like that. Minutes. Maybe longer. Time had stopped meaning much, measured only in the rise and fall of her breath, the warmth of her body, the weight of her head on his shoulder.

Then she stirred. Her hand moved, sliding up his chest until her fingers found the collar of his shirt. She traced the edge of it, slow and deliberate, and he felt the touch like a current running through him.

"Riley," she said, her voice soft in the darkness.

"Yeah?"

She lifted her head, looking at him. Her eyes were dark and serious, and there was something in them he couldn't quite read. "I'm not going anywhere."

He swallowed. "I know."

"I mean it. I know we haven't figured everything out yet. I know there's Inde, and the others, and the whole—" She gestured vaguely. "Situation. But I'm not going anywhere."

He turned his head, pressing a kiss to the top of her hair. "I'm not going anywhere either."

"Good." She settled back down, her cheek finding his chest, her hand still resting over his heart. "That's good."

The silence settled again, but it was different now. Fuller. Heavier with everything they'd said and everything they were still learning to say.

He lay there, holding her, and felt the steady thrum of her heartbeat under his palm. The lamp continued its golden glow, spilling into the room from the living room, and the clock ticked on, and the refrigerator hummed, and somewhere in the quiet, Riley felt something settle in his chest.

Not fear. Not uncertainty.

Something like peace.

She shifted again, her lips brushing his jaw, and the contact sent a shiver through him. She didn't pull away. Instead, she pressed closer, her hand sliding up to cup the side of his face, her thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone.

"Thank you," she whispered, "for making me feel like I belong somewhere."

His hand found hers, lacing their fingers together. "You do belong somewhere. You belong here."

Her breath hitched. He felt it, the small tremor that ran through her body, and he tightened his arms around her, pulling her as close as he could.

"I love you," he said again, because it was the only thing that mattered.

"I love you too."

They stayed like that, tangled together in the dim light, the warmth of their bodies mingling under the sheets. The weight of the day pressed down on them both, but it wasn't heavy. It was grounding. It was real.

Riley closed his eyes and let himself feel it: her breath, her heartbeat, the way her fingers curled against his shirt. He felt the slow slide of sleep creeping in, pulling at the edges of his awareness, and he didn't fight it.

Her body was warm against his. Her hand was a small, steady weight over his heart. And as the silence deepened, full and waiting, he let himself drift, one last thought surfacing before the darkness took him:

This was where he was supposed to be.