They set the phone gently on the coffee table and leaned in, softly pressing their lips to his. They closed their eyes, absorbing the feel of his plump lips, the ghost of his sleepy exhale across Jules’s skin. They wanted to live in this moment forever. This was what it felt like to be chosen. Not in a loud, dramatic way. But in the quiet moments. The ones that didn’t need to be announced just lived.
Jules sat up and watched Keaton sleep when he didn’t even stir, their eyes tracing the stubble along his jaw, the way a lock of hair had fallen out of place against his temple. The urge to reach out and brush it back was strong—ridiculous, really—but they didn’t.
Not yet.
Jules barely had time to blink before Keaton stirred, a quiet sound escaping his throat as he shifted under the blanket. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, then squinting toward them in the dim light.
“Hey,” he rasped, voice low and rough with sleep. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
Jules smiled, soft and entirely involuntary. “You were out cold.”
Keaton blinked again, like he was still catching up. “Thought I might hear the door if I stayed out here. Didn’t want to go to bed alone.”
That landed harder than it should have. It wasn’t the words so much as the way he said them—matter-of-fact, like it wasn’t a big deal to admit he wanted to see them when they got home. Like it was okay to want that now. It was sweet.
Sleeping alone wasn’t anything new for either of them. Did that mean Keaton wanted them to sleep in bed with him tonight? Or was it sleepy confusion that caused the words to slip out?
“You know,” Jules said, tugging their sleeves over their hands, “I could get used to this. You’re cute when you’re just a little needy.”
Keaton let out a soft huff, not quite a laugh. “That what this is?”
“Pretty sure.” Jules bumped his knee with theirs. “But I like it.”
He sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, then glanced at the TV screen still flickering with previews. “You hungry?”
Jules shrugged. “I could eat something.”
Keaton pushed the blanket off and stood, stretching until his back cracked. He padded toward the kitchen without another word, and Jules followed.
In the kitchen, Keaton moved like he didn’t need to think. Bread from the pantry, cheese from the fridge, pan on the stove—all muscle memory. He opened a drawer, pulled out the worn spatula with the melted edge, and set it down like it was part of a ritual.
“Late-night grilled cheese,” he said, glancing at them.
Jules leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You make it sound like it’s on the secret menu.”
“Only served between one and three a.m.,” Keaton deadpanned. “Limited seating.”
“Is this your response to the tomato? A grilled cheese offering in its honor?” They needed to say something to lighten the moment because it felt weirdly charged.
The smell of sizzling butter filled the room, and Jules’s stomach rumbled. Keaton moved with quiet ease, the kind that came from knowing exactly what needed to be done and doing it without fanfare. No overthinking. No hesitation.
Jules, on the other hand, was overthinking everything.
This felt too easy. Too good.
Keaton cut the grilled cheese diagonally and handed Jules half without ceremony. Their fingers brushed as he passed it over, and they felt it all the way down to their toes.
Everything in the room shifted. Not dramatically. Not with a bang. Just a quiet, magnetic pull that made the air feel heavier. Sharper. Alive.
Jules took a bite and let the melted cheese burn the roof of their mouth because they weren’t about to wait for it to cool. “This is criminally good.”
They chewed in silence for a few beats, the kind that wasn’t awkward so much as loaded. Jules kept their eyes on the countertop, afraid that if they looked up, Keaton would see too much.
But then again, maybe that was the point.
“I really like this,” Jules said, keeping their voice low. “You waiting for me to get home, making me something to eat. With you. But it scares the crap out of me.”
Keaton didn’t flinch. Just took another bite, chewed, swallowed, and said, “Me too.”
