The couch sat awkwardly in the middle of our tiny living room, its upholstery smelling faintly of something faded, like an old book left forgotten in an attic. I perched on the edge, sipping tea from a chipped mug we’d found at a flea market. Hank sprawled across what remained of the couch, his arms behind his head, his long legs dangling over the side. His toes lazily brushed against Lucy, our cat, who was curled up on the rug. The light from the floor lamp fell unevenly, casting sharp angles across his cheekbones, soft shadows along his neck. “You’re about to fall,” he murmured, eyes still closed. I snorted and shifted closer to the back of the couch, but something went wrong. The world tilted, as if someone had yanked the stage curtain too hard, and suddenly there was nothing beneath me. My mug slipped from my hands, hot tea splashing across my fingers. In the next instant, I was falling—silent, weightless, as though caught in slow motion. And then—his hands. Warm, strong, they wrapped around me as if they had been waiting for this moment, as if he’d known I would be here, teetering on the edge. The mug hit the floor with a hollow thud; Lucy hissed somewhere out of sight. I froze in his arms. “You could’ve told me you were planning to fly,” Hank whispered, his voice close to my ear. I looked up at him, and in his gaze, there was something more—something beyond just care. A secret, a promise, a warning. “I’ll always catch you,” he added, and it didn’t sound like a joke. It sounded as though he knew me better than I knew myself...🤎💜 - @hank_hancy