Hello Love
Benson Boone
Warmth wakes me first.Not sunlight. Not noise. Something solid under me, steady and quiet, rising and falling in a slow rhythm that doesn’t belong to sleep anymore. My eyes blink open slowly.
The TV screen is dark now, the room washed in pale morning light filtering through the windows. A blanket sits half-tangled around my legs. My cheek rests against something firm. And I realize it’s his chest. Memory trickles back in pieces. Pizza. The movie. Talking without really talking. Falling asleep. My breath catches softly.
Mikey’s arm lies heavy around my waist, his hand relaxed like it settled there without thinking. His chin brushes the top of my head. The steady beat of his heart thumps warm and calm against my ear. I go still. Is he awake? As if he feels the shift, his fingers move slightly, slow and absent, like he’s making sure I’m real.
“Morning Q.” His voice is rough with sleep, low and quiet against my hair.
I tilt my head just enough to glance up. His golden eyes are already open, soft in the morning light, no trace of teasing or playfulness. Just calm. “You didn’t wake me.”
A small shrug lifts beneath me. “You looked comfortable.”
Something tightens in my chest. I should move. Sit up. Make a joke about drooling on him or stealing his body heat. Instead, I stay exactly where I am. His thumb brushes once across my side. It’s not suggestive, just gentle.
“You sleep okay?”
I nod against him.Too okay. The sunlight catches on his face, highlighting the rough edge of stubble along his jaw, a softness in his expression I’m not sure I’ve seen before. Or maybe I just never noticed.
He shifts slightly, careful not to jostle me, his hand moving up to brush hair away from my face. The gesture is slow, almost hesitant. Then he leans down and presses a soft kiss to the top of my head. Nothing more. No heat. No demand. Just affection. Like he’s already decided this matters too much to rush.
My stomach flips. Because that’s somehow worse. Better? I think so. Confusing? Definitely. I wait for him to move closer. For something to change. Neither happens. He just rests there, easy and steady, like this is enough. Why isn’t he kissing me? The thought slips in before I can stop it. I want him to.God, do I want him to.
Instead, he shifts again, stretching carefully, his arm sliding away as he sits up. “You want coffee?”
Just like that. Normal. Like I didn’t just spend the night in his arms. I blink at him, still half wrapped in warmth and confusion. “Yeah, sure.”
He stands, offering me a hand automatically. I take it, letting him pull me up from the couch. My body sways slightly fromsleep and he steadies me without thinking, palm warm against my side. The contact lingers a second longer than necessary, his eyes locking onto mine. Then he steps away.
I watch him walk toward the kitchen, easy and relaxed, like nothing about last night or this morning feels complicated to him. Maybe it doesn’t. I sit back down and curl my legs beneath me again, watching the sunlight stretch across the floor.
He’s affectionate. He’s careful. He’s being unbelievably kind. And somehow, that makes the distance between us feel sharper. Because now I know exactly what’s on the other side of it, and because I don’t want careful anymore. I want the part of him that stole my breath away when he kissed me. The part that looked at me like he was barely holding on.
From the kitchen, the sound of the coffee grinder churns softly. He hums under his breath, something easy, familiar. Which is dangerous, because this is starting to feel like home. And I’m not sure when that happened.
I sit curled at the edge of the couch, watching him without meaning to. Bare feet. Messy hair. One hand braced against the counter while he pours. So domestic. Dangerously domestic. Dangerously easy.
He glances back over his shoulder. “You want toast or something?”
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
He carries a mug over to me, our fingers brushing when I take it. No hesitation. No lingering. He seems so at ease. “I’m gonna grab a shower.” He flashes me a quick smile and then strolls in the direction of his room. When did he become a grown up?
The train ride later feels louder than usual. People crowding in. Conversations overlapping. The metallic screech of the tracks filling the spaces between my thoughts. I replay the morning in my head. The warmth of him behind me. The soft kiss to myhair. The way he didn’t push for anything. Why does that feel like rejection? It’s not. I know it’s not. And that somehow makes it more confusing. It should feel safe. And it does. That’s the conundrum.
Work is steady but exhausting in the quiet way that comes at the beginning of any week. Meetings. Notes. Conversations that require more patience than I feel like I have today. At lunch I escape. Fresh air hits my face as I walk without a plan, hands shoved into my coat pockets. The city hums around me with traffic, voices, and the distant rhythm of construction somewhere nearby.
My phone buzzes. It’s Sadie. I hesitate before answering. “Hey.”
“How are you feeling today?” Her voice is warm, knowing. Too knowing.
“I’m fine.”
A pause. “Why does that sound like a lie?”
I laugh softly. “I’m just tired.”
