The couch creaked under their combined weight, just like it used to, as she settled onto his lap, one thigh at a time. Her hands found his shoulders without hesitation, her thumb brushing the same spot below his collarbone that always made him shiver—a tickle, a memory, a secret only they shared. It had been five years, but when she leaned in, her breath warm against his neck, he smelled the same vanilla perfume, and time folded in on itself.
“Still fits,” she murmured, and he laughed, the sound tight with something like relief. He’d worried the years would make them strangers, that the easy familiarity would fade, but here she was, moving like she’d never left—knowing to tilt her hips just so, to rest her cheek on his chest where his heartbeat was loudest, to pause when his hands tightened on her waist.
This wasn’t just sitting. It was muscle memory, a dance their bodies remembered even when their minds had tried to bury it. She shifted, her knee pressing into the couch in a way that made him groan, and smiled, that same mischievous smile, like she’d been waiting to see if he’d react. “Forgot nothing,” she said, as if reading his mind, and he kissed her, hard, because some things don’t need words.