Saturday arrived slowly, like it knew they had no reason to rush. The sun crept through the slats of the blinds in golden lines, warming the bed, catching in the tousled mess of Summer's hair and the curve of Andy's bare shoulder where he lay half-twisted around her. Neither of them made a move to get up for a long while — just the occasional shift of limbs or the sleepy weight of a kiss dropped on skin.

  Eventually, Andy stirred, stretching like a cat with a satisfied groan, and murmured into Summer's hair, "We should eat something before we forget how."

  Later, after a leisurely breakfast — toast, eggs, strawberries, and plenty of lounging — they found themselves curled together on the couch. Not in the charged way of the night before, but in something gentler. Deeper.

  Summer sat with her knees drawn up, reading, her copper hair tucked behind one ear. She'd taken over one end of the couch, a novel resting in her lap. Andy lay lengthwise with his head on her feet, a different book open across his stomach, one arm hanging over the side of the couch, occasionally tapping a rhythm on the floor with his fingertips.

  It was quiet except for the soft rustle of pages and the occasional contented sound. They hadn't spoken in nearly half an hour, and Andy had never felt more intimate with anyone in his life.

  "Is this what normal people do?" he asked eventually.

  Summer peered over the top of her book, smiling faintly. "Read in silence?"

  "Yeah. Together. Like this."

  She ran her fingers lightly through his hair. "No. But we're not exactly normal, are we? That was always rather the problem... "

  He closed his eyes, smiling like he'd just uncovered a secret. "This is amazing."

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  After a late lunch, Summer curled into a nest of pillows on the floor with her laptop, focused and unrelenting as she keysmashed her way through a boss fight. Andy sat behind her on the couch, idly watching a true crime documentary with subtitles on — something gruesome and twisted about a Victorian poisoner. He wasn't really watching it for the case. He was watching it because the aesthetic was just absurd enough to amuse him. And because he could see Summer's face reflected faintly in the TV glass.

  Occasionally she swore under her breath. Andy would glance over and offer solemn encouragement like, "That wizard deserved it," or "I support your murderous rampage."

  "Thank you," she muttered, eyes glued to the screen. "He was asking for it."

  "I believe you."

  A few minutes later she let out a victorious screech. Andy laughed, then leaned over and kissed the crown of her head. "Proud of you, killer."

  "Thank you," she said, breathless and flexing her fingers. "What's your murder guy up to?"

  "Poisoned his fifth wife. Or maybe it was his housekeeper. Honestly, they all blur together."

  "Romantic."

  "I thought so." He sank back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. "We are the epitome of coupledom. You with your pixel violence, me with my serial killers. Domestic bliss."

  Summer giggled. "And no one's bleeding. Yet."

  "Not unless your game gets a lot weirder."

  She snorted, and he closed his eyes again, sinking into the odd serenity of it all — murder and mayhem onscreen, her body warm near his, her presence humming like a soft, constant chord under the rest of the world.

  This, he thought, might be even better than silk and candlelight.

  Later still, when the game autosaved and the docuseries ended, she stretched, yawned, and turned her face toward his stomach, mumbling, "This is the best weekend."

  Andy looked down at her, brushing his fingers over her cheek. "I didn't know this was something I wanted until now."

  "What?"

  "This." He gestured vaguely. "You playing games. Me watching murder. Your foot trying to steal the blanket. It's... easy."

  Summer tilted her head back enough to meet his eyes. "It's my favourite part of you. When you stop being the fantasy and just... let yourself exist."

  Andy smiled, soft and crooked. "You're my favourite part of me, when I do."

  They didn't go out that day. They didn't dress up or play parts. They just stayed close — reading, watching, teasing each other, dozing off together in the slow slide of a day that asked nothing from them but to be.

  And Andy, wrapped around her and content in the quiet, thought it might just be the most intimate kind of love he'd ever known.