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.

The silence settled around them, thick and warm, the kind that didn't need filling. Her breath was slow against his neck, her fingers still resting over his heart, and he let his eyes drift closed, feeling the weight of her body pressing into his side.

Then she moved, just slightly. Her hand slid up from his chest to his shoulder, and she tilted her head back, her dark eyes finding his in the dim light. "Hey babe?" she said, her voice soft and a little sleepy.

The word hit him like a current. His eyes opened, and he blinked down at her, his brain stalling somewhere between the sound of it and the way it had rolled off her tongue. "What'd you call me?"

She grinned, that sly, theatrical grin that he was starting to recognize as her favorite. "Babe."

His face went hot. He could feel it, the flush creeping up his neck, and he tried to look away, but she was watching him, her eyes bright and amused, and he couldn't stop the smile that tugged at his mouth. "One more time."

She laughed, and the sound was warm and unguarded. "Babe. Babe. Babe." Each one landed like a small, perfect weight in his chest. She pushed herself up on her elbow, her hair falling forward, and she was still grinning as she said it again, slower this time. "Babe."

He reached up, his hand finding the side of her face, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone. "I think I like that," he said, his voice rough.

"Good. Because I'm not stopping." She leaned down and kissed him, quick and light, then pulled back, her smile softening. "Now. Do you want to do something tomorrow?"

He blinked, still catching up. "Tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Together. Just us." She settled back down, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder, her arm draping across his chest. "I know you've got the rest of the week planned out, but I was thinking—" She paused, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his shirt. "I was thinking we could do something. Just the two of us. Something that isn't me crying on your couch or you driving me to auditions."

He smiled at that, his arm tightening around her. "What did you have in mind?"

"I don't know." She tilted her head, looking up at him. "Breakfast? A walk? There's that farmer's market on Saturdays near the park—I saw it when we drove past. They have those kettle corn things you like."

He remembered. He'd mentioned it once, weeks ago, when they'd been sprawled across her old couch watching a movie and he'd made a comment about the kettle corn stand that set up near campus. She'd remembered. Of course she'd remembered.

"You want to go to the farmer's market?" he asked.

"I want to do something with you," she said, and her voice was quiet, stripped of the theatrical energy she'd been leaning on all evening. "I don't care what it is. I just—I want a normal day. A normal thing. Where we're just two people doing something normal together."

His chest ached. "Jess."

"I know it's a lot to ask. With everything going on. With Inde, and the others, and the whole arrangement. But tomorrow's Saturday. You don't have class. I don't have anything until the callback, and that's not until noon. So we could—" She stopped, her fingers curling into his shirt. "We could just have a morning. If you want."

He didn't answer with words. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, letting his lips linger there, breathing in the scent of her shampoo. "I want," he said against her hair.

She let out a breath, long and shaky, and he felt her body relax against his. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Farmer's market. Breakfast. Kettle corn. Whatever you want."

"I want you." The words came out small, almost a whisper, and she pressed her face into his shoulder, hiding. "I mean—that's not—I'm not trying to be—"

He cut her off by tilting her chin up and kissing her, slow and deliberate, his hand cupping her jaw. When he pulled back, her eyes were wide and dark, and her lips were parted, and she looked at him like he'd just handed her something precious.

"You have me," he said. "You've always had me."

She blinked, and he saw the shine in her eyes before she looked away, her hand coming up to wipe at her cheek. "Okay. Okay. That's—" She laughed, wet and breathless. "That's a lot for one night, Thompson."

"Sorry."

"Don't be." She sniffled, then laughed again, shaking her head. "I'm just—I'm not used to this. To someone actually meaning it."

He didn't know what to say to that, so he just held her closer, his hand finding hers and lacing their fingers together over his heart. The clock ticked. The lamp cast its golden rectangle across the floor. Somewhere outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping across the ceiling before disappearing.

"So tomorrow," she said, her voice steadier now. "Farmer's market. Nine-ish?"

"Nine-ish."

"And then maybe we grab coffee after. The place on Maple that does those cinnamon scones?"

"The ones you told me about last week? Yeah. That sounds good."

She hummed, a contented sound, and shifted closer, her leg sliding between his, her body fitting against his like it had been made to rest there. "This is nice," she said, her voice drowsy. "This is really nice."

He agreed. He couldn't say it, because his throat was tight and his chest was full, but he agreed. His hand moved in slow, absent circles on her back, and he felt her breathing even out, felt the weight of her settling deeper against him.

Three breaths. Four. He thought she'd fallen asleep.

Then her voice came again, soft and muffled against his shoulder. "Riley?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad I came to your place. That night. I know it was a mess, and I was a mess, and I showed up with nothing but a duffel bag and a panic attack. But I'm glad I did."

His arm tightened around her. "I'm glad too."

"I think—" She paused, and he felt her fingers trace the edge of his collar again, the same slow, deliberate motion from before. "I think I was meant to end up here. With you. In this stupid little apartment with the broken lamp and the stack of unread scripts and the bed that squeaks when you roll over."

He laughed, a low, soft sound. "The bed doesn't squeak."

"It does. I heard it last night. Every time you moved."

"You were asleep."

"I was pretending." She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. "I wanted to hear it. I wanted to know you were there."

Something in his chest cracked open. He didn't know what to do with it, with the weight of her words settling into him, so he did the only thing that made sense: he kissed her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth, each one soft and deliberate, a promise he didn't know how to make with words.

She closed her eyes, her lashes dark against her cheeks, and she let out a long, slow breath. "We should sleep," she said, but she didn't move, didn't pull away.

"We should," he agreed, and didn't move either.

They lay there, tangled together in the dim light, the silence full and breathing around them. The lamp from the living room cast its steady glow, and the clock ticked, and the refrigerator hummed, and Riley felt the slow, steady pull of sleep dragging at his edges.

Her hand was still over his heart. His arm was still around her. And somewhere in the quiet, between one breath and the next, he felt her lips brush his jaw, a whisper of contact that sent a shiver through him.

"Goodnight, babe," she said, her voice so soft he almost missed it.

He smiled, his eyes still closed. "Goodnight, Jess."

She settled deeper against him, her body relaxing into his, and he let himself drift, the sound of her breathing filling the space around them.

The lamp stayed on. The clock kept ticking. And Riley held her, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat under his palm, and thought that maybe this was what it meant to be home.

Not a place. Not a building.

A person.

He felt the word settle in his chest, warm and permanent, and he let it sit there, not examining it, not questioning it. Just letting it be hers.

The lamp light spilled across the floor, steady and golden, and he stared at it for a long moment, watching the way it caught the edge of her duffel bag, the corner of a script sticking out. He should turn it off. He knew he should turn it off. But the thought of reaching over, of moving, of disturbing the quiet weight of her body against his—it felt like breaking something.

He didn't move.

She shifted, a small adjustment, her hand sliding from his chest to his stomach, palm flat against the fabric of his shirt. The warmth of her fingers seeped through the cotton, and he felt the small, unconscious motion of her thumb tracing a slow arc across his ribs.

He held his breath.

She didn't open her eyes, didn't speak, but her hand stayed there, a warm anchor against his side, and after a moment she let out a soft sound, something between a sigh and a hum, and settled deeper into the curve of his arm.

"The lamp," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I should—"

"Leave it," she murmured, her lips brushing his shoulder. "I like it."

He hesitated. "It's not too bright?"

"It's perfect." She pressed a kiss to his shoulder, slow and deliberate. "Everything's perfect."

He felt the words in his bones. His arm tightened around her, and he turned his head, pressing his cheek against her hair, breathing her in. The floral scent had faded, mixed now with something warmer, something that was just her, and he closed his eyes and let himself soak in the reality of her, the weight of her, the way she fit against him like she'd always been there.

"Hey," she said, her voice drowsy but still present. "Riley?"

"Yeah?"

"You know I'm not going to wake up tomorrow and regret this, right?" She tilted her head, her eyes finding his in the dim light. "I know things are complicated. I know there's Inde, and the others, and the whole situation we're still figuring out. But I need you to know—" She paused, her fingertips pressing into his side. "I need you to know that this isn't a mistake. You're not a mistake."

His throat tightened. "Jess."

"I'm serious." Her voice was quiet but steady. "I've spent the last two years wondering what it would be like to be with you. To have you look at me the way you look at me tonight. And now that it's happening, I don't want to spend it being scared that it's going to fall apart."

He didn't have words. He didn't have anything close to words. So he did the only thing that made sense: he rolled onto his side, facing her, his hand finding her waist, and he pulled her close, his forehead pressing against hers.

"It's not going to fall apart," he said, his voice rough. "Not because of me."

Her hand came up, her fingers finding the back of his neck, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "I know." She kissed him, soft and slow, her lips lingering against his. "I know."

They stayed like that, forehead to forehead, breath mingling, the space between them reduced to nothing. The lamp cast its golden glow across the bed, catching the curve of her cheek, the line of her shoulder, the way her fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Tomorrow," she whispered. "Farmer's market. Nine-ish. You and me."

"You and me," he repeated, and the words felt like a vow.

She smiled, her eyes sliding closed, and he watched her face relax, watched the tension drain from her features as sleep pulled her under. Her hand stayed at his neck, her fingers loose and warm, and her breathing slowed, deepened, settled into a rhythm that matched the steady thrum of his own heart.

He didn't sleep. Not yet. He lay there, holding her, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips parted slightly, the way her brow smoothed in sleep. The lamp stayed on. The clock ticked. The refrigerator hummed.

And Riley Thompson, who had spent most of his life making himself smaller, who had hunched his shoulders and kept his hands in his pockets and tried not to take up space, lay in his bed with a woman who called him home—and he didn't feel small at all.

He felt like he could fill the whole world.