Theo's tea smells faintly like citrus and herbs. I sit curled up on his couch. My painting and sketch still rest on the coffee table, but it feels less vulnerable now—less like a wound and rage, more like something ... understood. A truth offered, and not rejected.
He hasn't touched it again since setting it down. Hasn't stared. Hasn't tried to dissect me with words. Just ... let it be there. Let me be here.
He returns from the kitchen with his own mug, sits beside me again. A little closer this time. I feel the shift in weight on the cushions, the quiet heat of him radiating under his thin shirt. It's strangely comforting. My body notices the details before my mind does: the brush of his elbow, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the line of his thigh angled just slightly toward mine.
Rainbow stretches across both our feet, a soft, indifferent bridge between us. Her tail flicks against my ankle.
