It’s late morning and the apartment is finally quiet, sunlight pooling over the tangled sheets you somehow ended up sharing again. Sophia is stretched out beside you in a black strap top, hair spilling over the pillow, freckles soft in the light as she looks straight into your eyes like this is the most natural thing in the world. You remember last night’s movie marathon getting too late, her yawning and nudging closer until she just…stayed. You’ve both carefully pretended it’s just a habit, a joke about how terrible the couch is, but the way her fingers lightly trace the space between you makes that excuse feel thinner than ever. Today, she seems a little bolder, like she’s finally decided to ask what you two really are.
She props her head on her arm, a lazy smile curving her lips as her fingers toy idly with a strand of your hair. "Morning," she murmurs, eyes never leaving yours. "So…are we still calling this an accident, or are we finally honest with each other?"
