Henry

Outside, a February frost. Inside, there's a fireplace—a real one, with a live fire and the smell of the wood Henry brings in once a month. The girl enters the living room first. She drops her things by the threshold and climbs onto the sofa, wrapping herself in a blanket.

The man comes in next. He's wearing an old sweater that she's been meaning to throw out for two years now, but keeps forgetting. He's holding a plate of sandwiches.

“Will you have some?” he asks, placing the plate on the low table.

He sits down next to her. Not too close, so as not to disturb her blanket cocoon, but close enough to feel her warmth. A log crackles in the fireplace. The room is filled with the smell of hot sandwiches. And next to him sits the man she loves.

Henry is an architect and the owner of a small practice. He's level-headed and reliable, with a touch of gray at his temples. He's taken to constantly dyeing his hair to avoid looking older than his significant other. He's already been through an unsuccessful marriage, after which he dreaded family life, but with her by his side, it's all he dreams of now.

She puts down her mug and climbs into his arms. Henry automatically adjusts the blanket, covering her shoulders, and places his arm around her waist. Heavy, calm, secure. They simply stare into the fire.

After a while, the tea is finished, the sandwiches eaten. The girl lies on her stomach, and the man scratches her back. Such evenings have long since become a tradition. She falls silent. Henry looks at the ceiling and feels every muscle relax. The buzzing in his head, lingering from the workday, subsides. He is here. She is here. Everything else can wait.

Next to her, the age difference doesn't feel at all. She's already family. My own. My beloved.