"This is our story, and we're writing it together.

The apartment still smells faintly of candle wax and wine. Soft music hums from the speakers, low enough that your heartbeat feels louder than the melody.

The dinner plates sit forgotten on the table—half-eaten dessert, melted ice cream dripping down the edges, the untouched slices of cake slowly caving in on themselves. You should get up. You should clean.

But you don’t.

You’re lying together on the couch, tangled in the lazy sprawl of limbs and warmth, Asa’s head tucked beneath your chin, her hand resting on your chest—fingers drawing slow, absent patterns across your shirt like she’s memorizing your pulse.

The city blurs outside the window—neon lights, faint headlights, all distant. But here, everything’s quiet. Soft. Close.

“Happy anniversary,” Asa murmurs, voice low, curling soft against your throat, quiet enough to make your chest feel.

You smile, the tension easing from your shoulders for a second as her hand finds your jaw, thumb grazing along the edge of your cheek. “We made it another year.”

Asa laughs softly, her breath stirring the hair near your temple—the sound folds around you, familiar, grounding, impossible to untangle yourself from.

Asa’s laugh hums against your skin, warm and effortless, threading through your ribs, grounding you. “You make it sound like we barely survived.”

“N-no, I… I didn’t mean it like that.”

She shifts, her chin tilting up to catch your expression, her eyes impossibly close, sharp, amused. “Of course,” she teases, voice a delicate tease that still presses at your nerves. “I know. I’m just messing with you.”

Your laugh slips out—nervous, short-lived—and you feel the way Asa watches you, her eyes steady, savoring every crack in your composure. The quiet stretches, your pulse tapping against your ribs.

Her hand pauses, resting against your chest. “What’s wrong?”

Your stomach tightens. You keep your eyes on the ceiling, focus on the soft glow of the apartment, the muffled hum of the city. “What? What do you mean?”

Asa doesn’t push. Not immediately. They just… wait. Watching. Patient. That unbearable silence where she already knows, where she always knows.

You sigh, the words dragging themselves out. “It’s nothing…”

But she stays quiet, watching. Letting the truth crawl to the surface on its own.

A bitter laugh slips past your lips. “I thought I was hiding it well.”

Her hand slides up, fingers brushing your jaw, thumb ghosting over your cheek in that way that always makes you want to fold. “I know you,” she whispers, soft and steady. “You know I always know.”

Your throat tightens. “It’s… work. The proposal I’ve been working on—it got rejected.”

“The one about the urban project?” Asa says, like they already have the timeline mapped out, their voice dipping lower.

You blink, startled. “Yeah. I don’t think I told you that yet.”

Asa smiles faintly, her lashes brushing your skin as she shifts, head resting back against your chest. “Last week,” she says quietly, “you fell asleep face-down in your notes… talking in your sleep about it.”

You groan softly, warmth flushing your face. “God… thanks for waking me up that night.”

“If you didn’t make me promise, i would’ve just let you sleep,” Asa breathes, fingers resuming their slow, delicate tracing against your chest, her voice curling soft and sure around your ribs. “You know you don’t have to keep secrets from me. Especially not about things like this.”

“It wasn’t a secret,” you mumble, your face half-buried against her hair. “I just didn’t want to tell you tonight… I wanted this to be about us. I didn’t want to ruin it.”

A pause.

“And I know you’re busy too—with your next book…”

Asa hums faintly, her smile brushing against your skin, unreadable and warm all at once. She holds you closer, quiet for now.

The warmth of Asa pressed against you, her soft, steady breathing, the rhythmic hum of her chest rising and falling—it all lulled you under like it always does. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the couch.

But now, the apartment’s gone quiet. The music’s long since stopped. Only the faint buzz of city noise presses against the windows, distant, muted.

You blink awake, muscles stiff from being curled in place too long. Asa’s still tucked beside you, limbs tangled, her head heavy against your chest. Completely asleep—face soft, eyelashes resting against flushed cheeks, her hand still curled in the fabric of your shirt like she couldn’t bear to let go, even unconscious.

You exhale softly, brushing hair from her face. For a second, you almost stay there.

But she’ll be uncomfortable come morning.

Careful not to wake her, you shift, sliding your arm beneath her legs, her body light and warm as you lift her. She stirs faintly, brow creasing, but doesn’t wake. You carry her to the bedroom, the quiet click of the door behind you settling her back into peaceful sleep.

The apartment feels larger now, empty without her beside you.

You stretch, flexing your stiff shoulders, glancing around the living room—the abandoned plates, wine glasses, melted candles. The mess can’t sit overnight. You clear the table, stack dishes by the sink, move toward the dim hallway—

The faint glow slips under the door to Asa’s office.

You pause. It’s… open. Wide open. The soft hum of the desk lamp spills across the hardwood floor.

Weird. Asa never leaves that room open—hell, she barely lets you in there. It’s her space, her writing cave, the door always closed like an unspoken rule.

You hesitate, hand brushing the doorframe. You don’t mean to snoop. You don’t. The light’s just on. You’ll turn it off, close the door, that’s it.

But when you step inside—

Your foot clips the edge of the desk, harder than intended.

The neat stack of papers and books topples, spilling across the hardwood floor in a quiet, clumsy mess. You wince, crouching down to gather them, careful, quick—until your fingers brush against the edge of a notebook.

Your fingers linger on the worn leather cover, Asa’s handwriting etched across it like a quiet secret.

Your name, right there.

It makes your chest ache a little, that stupid warmth creeping in. You know you shouldn’t pry, but—what harm could it be? If it’s just some journal, some love letter… a part of you wants to see it. To know how she sees you, tucked away in private words.

You flip it open to somewhere near the middle, fingers brushing the edges carefully.

It’s exactly what you expect at first.

March 18th. He didn’t sleep much. Kept shifting in bed, eyes red when he thought I wasn’t looking. I wrapped my arm around him, and his breathing steadied. He always pretends to be fine, but I know better.