The rain tapped softly against the skylight above the bed, a gentle rhythm that wrapped the room in a cocoon of quiet. Layla lay on her side, fingers lazily tracing the tattoo on Alex’s back — the one Cam had designed on a whim one summer evening after three glasses of wine and too many stolen kisses.
Cam was curled beside them now, one leg thrown over Layla’s hips, her breath warm on her shoulder. The three of them fit like a living sculpture, tangled and content beneath a tangle of cotton sheets and half-whispered memories.
“I like when you’re quiet like this,” Alex murmured, voice still heavy with sleep. “It feels… like home.”
Layla smiled, her fingers pausing over the inked swirl near his spine. “This is home.”
Cam stirred, nosing her way closer. “You two are already getting mushy without me?”
Layla turned and kissed her — slow, deliberate, a kiss that carried the weight of lazy Sunday mornings and midnight confessions. Cam hummed into it, her hand sliding across Layla’s bare side, possessive in the softest way.
Alex watched, propped up on one elbow now, his eyes dark and calm. “You’re both impossible,” he said, then leaned in to claim a kiss of his own.
The rain continued above them, unnoticed.
Time, like the sheets, had fallen away. There was only the heat between their skin, the space between breaths, and the ache of wanting that never needed to be rushed.
Three hearts. One bed. Infinite softness.