Sebastian's POV
I'd forgotten what peace sounded like.
Not silence — peace. They're different. Silence is dead air. Peace has texture. The sound of Ava humming to herself in the kitchen, the clink of cutlery, the lazy purring of the cat she dragged in last week, the distant hum of rain tapping the windows.
It was a Sunday.
She was wearing my hoodie again. No surprise. That girl had declared war on my wardrobe the second I unpacked my bags from Britain. She wore everything too big, sleeves always slipping over her fingertips, hem brushing her thighs. And somehow, she made every piece look like it was made for her.
I watched her from the doorway.
Barefoot. Hair tied in a loose bun with a pen shoved in it. Pancake batter on her nose. Talking to the damn cat like it was a Michelin-star chef helping her cook.
"How are the pancakes not golden brown, Mr. Soot? Did you lie about preheating the pan again?"
I bit back a laugh.
She turned just in time to catch me smirking.
"You've been watching me like a weirdo for five minutes, Seb."
"Ten," I corrected, stepping into the kitchen.
She raised an eyebrow. "You're losing your edge."
"Not possible," I said, catching her waist as she tried to duck past me with a spatula. "You're just too distracting."
"Flattery," she said, wiggling free, "won't get you more pancakes."
"Wasn't after pancakes."
"Liar."
I kissed her temple. She leaned into it like a sunflower finds sunlight. And for a second, the house felt full — like nothing bad had ever happened here.
Like the shadows Rain had left behind had been washed out by the sound of her giggles.
We sat on the floor to eat, because Ava said chairs were "too formal for pancake day." She poured syrup over my plate like a five-year-old hopped up on sugar, then curled into my side with her legs tucked over mine.
"Remember when I almost got arrested in London?" she said between bites.
"You mean the time you actually got arrested and I had to bribe an officer to pretend it was a mistake?"
"Minor details."
I rolled my eyes and sipped my coffee.
She watched me, face softer now. Like something had shifted. Not broken — just opened.
"I like you better like this," she said quietly. "When you're calm. Laughing. Here."
"Yeah?"
She nodded. "It makes me feel like I can breathe."
God.
What was I supposed to do with a love like that?
She didn't just want me at my best. She wanted to be there. In the mess. In the grief. In the mornings when I couldn't speak. In the nights I checked every window twice.
And still, somehow, she made it look like I was the one holding her together.
"I'm proud of you," I said, tracing circles on her thigh. "I know I say it a lot, but… I really mean it. You've changed, Ava. You fought your way back to yourself."
She stared at me for a long time. Then whispered:
"Because you stayed."
I kissed her forehead.
"I'll always stay."
We spent the rest of the morning doing absolutely nothing. Her head on my chest. My fingers in her hair. The storm outside tapping gently at the windows — like it knew it wasn't welcome here anymore.
Not while she was laughing.
Not while she was safe.
Not while this house, this girl, this version of us—
Finally felt like home.
The end.
Signing off.
Siddhii Singh.