The morning slipped in quietly, like it respected what they had built the night before. Sunlight filtered through Hriva's window in soft streaks, falling across the floor in golden slants. Jake woke before her again, but this time, he didn't move. He just stayed there, wrapped around her, breathing in the stillness and the lavender in her hair.
Hriva's breathing was slow and even, her hand resting loosely over his. The silence between them wasn't empty. It was full of meaning. Like even time had slowed to watch.
He kissed her shoulder softly, barely a brush of lips against skin.
She stirred. "Mmm… again."
He kissed the same spot again, and she smiled sleepily.
"Morning," she whispered, voice coated in warmth.
"Good morning," he murmured against her skin.
They stayed in bed longer than necessary. There was no rush, no urgency, just the slow drifting between sleepy touches and quiet smiles. Eventually, they pulled themselves from the warmth of blankets, but not from each other.
Hriva wore his hoodie again, sleeves dangling past her fingers. Jake watched her as she stood in front of her bathroom mirror, brushing her hair with one hand while holding a piece of toast in the other.
"You look good in my clothes," he said from the doorway, leaning against the frame.
She glanced at him through the mirror, one brow lifting. "Is this your way of marking territory?"
He grinned. "Maybe. You're not complaining."
She took a bite of toast and spoke through it. "Not even a little."
By midmorning, they found themselves back in his truck, windows cracked just enough to let the breeze in. They weren't going anywhere fancy. Just driving. No destination, no deadline.
Jake reached over and turned down the music. "I want to show you something."
Hriva looked over, curious. "What is it?"
"You'll see."
They passed the edges of the city, where traffic thinned and the noise softened. The skyline faded behind them as suburbs gave way to countryside roads lined with trees, their leaves rustling in the wind.
Jake pulled off into a narrow lane flanked by wildflowers and quiet fences. At the end of the path stood a small, weathered house painted pale blue with faded yellow shutters. The front yard was overgrown with daisies, and the porch creaked under the weight of memory.
Hriva's brows knit gently. "Where are we?"
Jake turned off the engine and sat still for a moment, looking at the house like it held more than just walls.
"This is where I grew up," he said finally.
Hriva looked at him with wide eyes. "Really?"
He nodded. "We moved out when I was fifteen. No one's lived here since. But I still come here sometimes. When I want to think."
There was something in his voice. Not pain. Not exactly. Just a kind of tender ache, softened by time.
They stepped out of the truck, the ground crunching beneath their feet. Jake reached into his pocket and pulled out a small key. He unlocked the door, and it swung open with a groan, revealing a world frozen in dust and silence.
The house smelled like age and something floral, maybe the ghost of an old candle, or the lingering scent of his mother's favorite soap.
He led her through the narrow hallway. Every corner seemed to hum with nostalgia. Faded family photos still hung crookedly on the walls. The kitchen table was still there, covered in a checkered cloth, a chipped mug resting near the edge like someone had just walked away and never came back.
Jake opened a door near the end of the hall.
"This was my room."
Hriva stepped inside and smiled softly.
The room was painted a soft yellow, sunlight making the color bloom brighter across the floor. The bed was gone, but the posters still hung, old band logos, scribbled lyrics, photos tacked onto corkboards. A guitar leaned in the corner, strings broken, but still carrying something sacred in its silence.
"It still smells like you," she said gently.
He laughed under his breath. "That's either really sweet or kind of gross."
"Definitely sweet."
She walked toward the guitar and ran her fingers over it. "Did you write your first song in this room?"
Jake nodded. "And played it so badly, my mom made me cookies just to soften the blow."
Hriva looked at him then, her gaze deeper than words.
"Why did you bring me here?" she asked softly.
Jake walked over, stood close to her. "Because I've never brought anyone here. Not even Ian. This house… this version of me… it's not something I share."
She swallowed hard. "And you're sharing it with me."
He nodded once.
"I wanted you to see where I come from. What shaped me. I wanted you to know… not just the man you see now, but the boy I used to be. The scared one. The one who used to sit by that window and write songs because it was the only way he knew how to feel."
Hriva reached for his hand and squeezed it tight. "Thank you for showing me."
There was a quiet beat between them.
Then she whispered, "Do you want to play something? Even without strings?"
Jake smiled, his eyes shining a little. "Yeah. I do."
He picked up the guitar gently, sat on the floor beneath the window where light spilled across the hardwood. He didn't play. Just held it. And started to hum.
Hriva sat beside him, resting her head on his shoulder as he sang a few lines of an old, unfinished song. His voice wasn't polished. It cracked in places. But it was real. And it filled the yellow room with something new.
Not just memory.
But presence.
Love.
And maybe, for the first time in that quiet little house, Jake wasn't just visiting his past.
He was rewriting it.
With her.