The horizon was bleeding orange when they finally stopped by the porch. A hush settled between them, not heavy — but tender, like a blanket drawn close.
"Billy stood beside Artur, their fingers brushing in quiet, absentminded motion, hands loosely linked." His shoulder occasionally bumped Artur's arm when the breeze shifted. Neither said anything. Neither needed to.
The wind tugged softly at Billy's hair, and he glanced up toward the sky, watching as a few early stars dared to blink through the fading light.
"You know," he murmured, "it's nice like this."
Artur turned slightly. "Like what?"
Billy didn't answer right away. His thumb traced slowly along the inside of Artur's palm, thoughtful. "Feels like one of those moments you remember without trying."
Artur's lips curved, warm but quiet. "You say that like we've lived a hundred years together."
Billy smiled back at him, tilting his head. "Feels like we have, doesn't it?"
