#softimagines

“Don’t move yet,” they mumble, voice gravelly with sleep. “I’m not ready to be a person.”

You smile, eyes still closed, and tuck your hand over theirs. Their fingers are loose at first, then they tighten like they’ve decided you might drift away if they don’t anchor you. The rain taps on the window. Somewhere out there, people are catching trains and opening umbrellas. In here, there’s only the sound of their breathing, the warmth of their mouth nuzzling the curve of your shoulder.

“Coffee?” you whisper, more habit than question.

They shake their head against your skin. “You first,” they say, but it sounds like a joke. Then, softer: “Stay. Please.”

You roll onto your back so you can see them. Their hair is a mess, their lashes half-stuck together, their smile small and a little crooked. They look like morning — real, unpolished, dear. You touch their cheek with the back of your fingers. The room smells like cotton and rain and the faint sweetness of your shampoo in their hair.

“Okay,” you say. “We stay.”

They relax like you just solved something important. One of their hands finds yours under the blanket, thumb tracing your palm like they’re trying to memorize the lines there. You breathe together for a while. A car passes outside. The radiator clicks. A bird attempts a very brave, very wet song.

“Nightmare?” you ask, because you recognize the way they’re holding you — the way people hold on after falling.

They shrug, embarrassed. “Not really. I was just… worried. About nothing. About everything.” Their eyes flick to your face, then away. “You know how it gets.”

You do. So you lift their hand and kiss their knuckles, one by one, slow like counting. They exhale, a shaky breath that eases by the time you reach their thumb. When you set both your hands on your stomach, their fingers slot between yours like it’s muscle memory.

“Let’s make today small,” you suggest. “No big plans. Just this.”

“Just this,” they echo. It sounds like relief.

Minutes stretch. You talk about nothing — about the weird dream you barely remember, about whether the plant on the windowsill needs a bigger pot, about how the neighbor’s dog has learned the exact sound of your front door and barks like you’re celebrities whenever you come home. Your voices are quiet, the kind of quiet that doesn’t need shushing.

At some point your stomach growls and you both laugh. They roll away dramatically, fling an arm over their face, and whisper, “betrayal,” like they’re in a tragedy. You nudge them with your knee until they peek at you from beneath their arm.

“Toast?” you ask. “Or do we make pancakes and pretend we’re people who do breakfast properly?”

“Pancakes,” they say instantly. “We’ll burn the first one like a sacrifice.”

You promise the batter your best effort and slide out of bed. The air is cool on your legs, and you make a face at the floor with its predictable morning chill. Behind you, the bed creaks as they sit up and reach for you without thinking, fingers brushing your wrist, a little tug that says come back. You lean down and they kiss your forehead in a soft, home-shaped way.

“Meet you in the kitchen,” you say.

“Bring me,” they reply.

So you do. You pull them up, both of you unsteady with sleep, and shuffle to the kitchen wrapped in the same blanket, both feet stepping on the hem like children learning a three-legged race. You end up laughing at the sink because they try to pour batter with their non-dominant hand while refusing to let go of your waist. The first pancake is, as foretold, a disaster — crispy on one side, suspiciously pale on the other. You hold it up between two fingers and declare it “abstract”. They applaud.

While the second pancake cooks (properly), you stand in front of the stove and they stand behind you, chin hooked over your shoulder, arms around you like a scarf. The window fogs at the corners. The rain keeps going, not interested in your pancakes at all.

“Thank you,” they say into your neck. It’s barely a voice. More a feeling shaped into sound.

“For what?”

“For not making me be brave yet.” They squeeze your middle. “For letting the day be small.”

You flip the pancake, watch it land perfect, and feel something soft bloom under your ribs. “We can be brave later,” you say. “After pancakes.”

“Deal.”

You eat at the counter, sharing one plate because getting a second one seems illegal when the world is this gentle. They steal your last bite and then immediately offer theirs with a fork held to your mouth, like penance. You accept, because you’re merciful.

Back in bed — because of course you return to bed — you stack pillows, coax the blankets into a warm nest, and press close until your knees tuck perfectly behind theirs. They look at you like you’ve given them something rare. Maybe you have. Maybe the rarest thing is a morning where nothing is urgent and nobody is pretending.

“I love you,” they say, not dramatic, not grand. Just true.

“Yeah,” you breathe, forehead to theirs. “Me too.”

Outside, the rain doesn’t pause for any of this. That’s okay. It doesn’t need to. Inside, you hold hands and let the day stay small. Inside, you’re already where you were trying to get.

You close your eyes, and you both keep the promise without saying it: we’ve got time.

﹒✦・note・✦﹒

hi, thank you for reading this little piece ‹𝟹 i’m starting this blog to share soft, fluffy stories like this — the kind of writing that feels like a warm blanket on a rainy day. i hope this imagine bring you a little comfort whenever you need it.