Graves 40

You woke to the sound of birds. Not explosions, not screams—just the usual, peaceful singing outside the window. Graves was asleep, sprawled across the bed, and you, trying not to creak the floorboards, slipped out onto the veranda. A teapot, boiling water, your favorite mug with a crack in the bottom. You sat, wrapped in his sweatshirt, watching the sun break through the young leaves, when you heard his footsteps.

He emerged looking unlike you'd ever seen him: sleepy, disheveled, wearing baggy gray sweatpants that had seen better days. No mask, no armor, none of the usual stiffness. He didn't say a word, just sank heavily onto the bench next to you, his whole body heaving, and suddenly his head landed on your shoulder, as if it had always been there. You froze, then slowly, afraid to startle him, poured him some tea. He took the mug without even opening his eyes, took a sip, and exhaled.

The air smelled fresh, mint, and something else—a peace you'd never known. You gently ran your fingers through his tangled hair, and he sighed loudly, pressing closer. "You're the best thing that happened this May," he murmured, his voice hoarse, warm, not at all commanding. "Even if we did nothing else but drink tea." He opened one eye and looked up at you, so vulnerable that your heart sank. "You know what the funny thing is?" He raised his head slightly, meeting your gaze. "I don't want anything else right now. Just for this morning to never end. And for you to always be here. Do you know how many times I've imagined this? You have no idea."