Day's POV
Location: School Courtyard, Just Before Class
She finds me like she always does.
Like it's instinct. Like the world might be big, but I'll never be too far from her.
"Dayyyyy!" she calls, voice as bright as her laugh, running across the courtyard like she doesn't care who sees her sprinting straight into me.
I don't brace.
I should, but I never do.
Because there's something about the way she flings herself into my arms that makes the world feel softer.
"You haven't eaten, have you?" she accuses before even breathing. She's staring at me like I'm a puzzle she's halfway solved.
"No."
I don't even try to lie anymore.
She gasps. "Day Ashford, that is a crime. A felony. A tragedy. Lucky for you, I'm an excellent chef and even better girlfriend."
She pulls out the lunchbox with a flourish. "Ta-da! Bento made with love! By your very own personal kitchen goddess. Me."
She's standing on her toes now, her hair tied up in a thick braid, ends brushing the back of her knees, ribbons tangled in it like she got distracted mid-styling and never finished.
She opens the lid and beams proudly. "Look. The dumplings are in a heart shape! Do you feel loved? You better."
I take it from her hands and stare at the little heart.
I do feel loved.
Too much, maybe.
"You didn't have to do this," I say, quietly.
She scoffs, tugging my collar straight like I'm her life-sized doll. "Of course I did. I woke up thinking, 'Did Day drink enough water? Did he eat enough? Did he sleep enough? Is he being cold and broody without me?'"
I almost smile. Almost.
Then she sits beside me on the bench and rests her chin on my shoulder. "You smell like books and storm clouds," she mumbles. "And a little bit like my perfume. That's my fault. Sorry."
I want to tell her she could wear me like perfume and I still wouldn't mind.
She keeps yapping, all in one breath.
About how she tripped in the hallway. How she thinks her English teacher is a vampire. How she wants to learn how to bake mango tarts for me next.
And I just sit there.
Listening.
Letting her exist in my space like she belongs there.
Because she does.
She leans in, brushing her lips against my cheek in a quick kiss. "Love you," she hums.
I freeze for half a second.
She does it every day. Says it so easily.
Like it's not something sharp and beautiful and terrifying.
"Love you too," I murmur.
And I mean it.
God help me—I mean it.
She's the only soft thing I've ever let stay.