We blinked
They were lying on the floor.
Not the bed, not the couch. Just the cool marble floor, because that spot under the ceiling fan got the best breeze. The curtains were half-drawn, and a soft, muted light spread across the room. Her leg was stretched across his stomach, toes moving lazily, while she scrolled through reels on her phone. He wasn’t doing anything—just staring at the ceiling, letting the weight of her leg remind him she was real.
It was a Sunday. Late afternoon. The kind of hour that didn’t demand anything. A quiet space between lunch and guilt.
“I have to leave in fifteen,” she murmured, eyes still on the screen.
“No, you don’t,” he replied, without turning his head.
She didn’t argue. Just let the reel finish, thumb hovering above the next one.
The room smelled faintly of lemon mop water and her leftover shampoo. One glass of water stood between them, untouched. His phone buzzed once. Neither of them moved. Her hair was half clipped, half falling into his face, but he didn’t brush it away. Let it be. Let it stay.
“You know,” she said after a while, “we haven’t moved in two hours.”
“We’ve blinked,” he offered.
“That doesn’t count.”
He turned his head slightly toward her. “Then let’s not count.”
She didn’t answer, but her fingers found his. Not in any poetic way—just a natural drift. Their palms touched, warm and a little tacky from the heat, and held. It wasn’t a gesture of romance. It was a habit. Like scratching your elbow or sighing when a song ends.
“I should really go,” she said after a while.
“I know.”
A beat passed. The fan creaked overhead. A dog barked in the distance.
“Five more minutes?”
She smiled without looking at him. “You always say that.”
“And yet,” he said, “you always stay.”
Her thumb moved over his knuckle. Softly, like smoothing creases out of a memory. Then, quieter, she said, “I like how you smell when you’ve done nothing all day.”
He turned to her, amused. “What does that even mean?”
She thought about it for a second. “You smell like silence.”
He didn’t understand it. But it settled somewhere in him like a compliment he didn’t need to question.
Eventually, she sat up, slowly. Her hair was flattened on one side, and her eyes looked heavy with something that wasn’t sleep. She looked around for her earrings, found only one on the floor.
“You always lose one,” he said, stretching.
“That’s why I wear cheap ones,” she replied, already clipping it back with one eye closed.
He sat up too, crossing his legs, just watching her. Watching her reassemble herself. Watching her go from ‘here’ to ‘about to leave.’
“If you stay longer,” he said, “we’ll get hungry.”
“And?”
“And I’ll have to cook.”
She leaned in close, her face almost brushing his. Her breath smelled of nothing but air.
“You burn toast.”
He grinned. “So stay. Let’s burn it together.”
She didn’t reply. Just smiled, slow and without effort, and lay back down. This time, her head rested on his chest. Her ear pressed to his heartbeat like it was music only she was allowed to hear. Her hand stayed tucked near her own collarbone, but her thumb brushed against the fabric of his t-shirt, like she was still deciding whether or not to let go.
“Five more minutes,” she whispered again.
He didn’t answer. He just closed his eyes and kissed the top of her head.
Outside, the light was fading.
Inside, everything was still glowing.