He didn't kiss her.
Basil stayed at 221B for five more days and for every single one it continued to rain, not that anyone minded (besides Mrs Hudson, who was concerned about wet-dog smell embedding itself in her carpets).
By the fourth day, Sherlock, Basil, and Y/N had settled into a comfortable routine that involved a walk each morning, amusing themselves inside for the remainder of the day, then, in the evening, another walk before tucking up in Y/N's bed to watch a movie.
At first, Y/N had been on the edge of her seat, metaphorically speaking. She half expected Sherlock to suddenly complain that their routine was too comfortable, that he'd gone too long without a case and would therefore deal with his boredom by pulling some kind of extravagant stunt to amuse himself. Like overthrowing the British parliament just to see what would happen. Or stealing the minute-hand from Big Ben just to prove that he could.
However, the days since he last solved a larger crime than Who Ate The Last HobNob (it was Basil) ticked by with nary a complaint. If anything, Y/N had rarely seen her flatmate so chipper. He held up his end of the agreement that had been made at the beginning of the week, aiding Y/N in Basil's general care and maintenance with the same level of eagerness as he'd started with. He was enthusiastic about every walk, despite the constant rain, and the fact that cleaning Basil's paws afterwards was less than an easy task. He volunteered to pop to the shops for another sack of dog food when the first ran out, supplying it with his own money. His face still lit up with joy every time Basil seeked out his affections, even if his timing was slightly inconvenient. Like when Sherlock was in the bath. Or submerged in a dream at 3am.
Something Y/N also anticipated was for Sherlock to guiltily confess to her that his earlier promise of a marriage pact had been a result of a dare, a prank, alcohol, recreational drugs, and/or an experiment. He was bound to realise what he'd done---what he'd agreed to---and retract every word of it at some point, Y/N was absolutely sure of it. Or embarrassment at showing his more vulnerable side would hit him all of a sudden, like a delayed reaction, and he'd deal with it by moving out all together (that last concern is a tad dramatic, but he is Sherlock Holmes, so Y/N wouldn't only not put it past him, she almost expected it).
But he didn't.
If anything, that uncharacteristically uninhibited conversation seemed to have pitched Y/N and Sherlock's friendship into a new tier of intimacy. By day three, Sherlock had stopped asking if he'd be spending the night in Y/N's room and just assumed he would be, gravitating to her bed whenever sleep was suggested as if it was second nature. It was clear that he'd adopted the right side of the bed as one of his Spots; little designated areas on the face of Planet Earth that he feels most at home.
(Y/N is another one of his Spots, not that she knew it. He'd go anywhere if she promised to stand by his side the entire time).
Despite his aplomb when entering Y/N's room, climbing onto Y/N's bed, and submerging himself in Y/N's duvet covers, it took Sherlock a while to initiate any kind of contact with Y/N herself; even though God knows he wanted to. A lot. But he didn't want to wait until the film was halfway-over to shyly scoot up to Y/N's side, so close that she could feel his now slightly-less-pointy hip bone pressed against hers. He wasn't patient enough to make it look like an accident like the first time they'd cuddled at the begging of the week. His needy, yearning gazes over to Y/N's side of the mattress were so obvious that even Basil picked up on them. In the end, Y/N just laughed at him, (which made his cheekbones colour) and lifted her arm so he knew he could sink against her side. Sometimes Y/N would rest her chin on his head, his curls fluttering as her breath ran through them, like the wind through grass.
Last night, though, Sherlock did something different. He lifted his arm, wordlessly inviting Y/N to nestle herself against his side. He wanted her affections, that was obvious. This had been a test to see if Y/N wanted his.
Of course she did, so, heart in her mouth, she'd moved over, letting her head fall on Sherlock's chest, bringing one arm to rest over his middle. He'd held her closer.
Prickles of interest still crackled their way across her skin at the memory.
He held her at night, too, when the lights were switched out, now that he had permission. Before Y/N had even found a comfortable position to sleep in he'd curl his long, lanky frame around her, or---on more than one occasion---take her hand and pull her over like a blanket until she was flush against his back. Sometimes Y/N staved off sleep for as long as she could, just so she could lay there, enjoying it, rubbing patterns onto his waist in time with his breathing. If he'd ever also been awake to feel it, he said nothing. Y/N felt a swell of something in her chest every time she realised that if he didn't like it he surely would have put a stop to it by now.
Sherlock inviting Y/N to cuddle had happened last night---their last night with Basil---and that may have been the reason why he's done it. It was of mutual, unspoken understanding that when Basil leaves all shall return to normal. That was why Sherlock had been spending the night in Y/N's room, after all; to get equal time with their temporary pet. Either one of them asking if they could (or inviting the other to) stay when Basil left would mean admitting that he had been an irrelevant factor. That they simply...enjoyed sharing a bed with eachother.
Y/N knew she wasn't brave enough to ask Sherlock to stay. She'd come close, several times, but the words always ended up losing momentum somewhere between her lungs and her mouth; as if her throat was a stretch of treacherous wilderness they couldn't quite make it through.
This was one of those times, as she watched Sherlock try to reach something he'd accidentally managed to get lodged on top of the cupboard. The thing was a bag of chocolate chips he'd bought specifically to put on top of that yogurt he likes---that one with a Nordic name on the label. He'd hidden the packet up on top of the cupboard because he hadn't wanted Y/N or Mrs Hudson "snaffling them" (a direct quote).
If you asked Y/N why that particular moment made her want to ask him to move into her bedroom, she wouldn't be able to answer. Not with any certainty. For some reason, at that moment---as his slight frown of frustration stirred guilty giggles in Y/N's chest like bubbles in a fizzy drink---she couldn't help falling a little deeper in love.
"How'd you manage to get them so far back?" Y/N asked. Sherlock's shirt had come untucked at his stomach and she wanted to reach over and push it back into the band of his trousers. Not because it was bugging her, or he looked slightly scruffy (that actually, somehow, just made him more attractive), but because she just wanted an excuse to touch him.
He retracted his arm and gave his hand a little shake as if angry at it for being several inches shorter than he'd like it to be. The crumbs of dust clinging to his fingers evacuated, fluttering to the ground like snow. London never had got that snow that seemed so close to falling at the beginning of the week. Just rain. Constant, ever-present droplets of moisture leaking from the sky with no sign of dissipating.
"I pushed them further back by accident," Sherlock said, looking thoughtful. "I need a grabber." He demonstrated, making little snapping motions with the hand still slightly dusty from the top of the cupboard.
"Like one of those sticks with a shark's mouth on the end?" Y/N suggested, mainly joking. She doubted Sherlock had owned one of those as a child, let alone now.
He nodded, though. "Yes. Or like your hand."
"My hand---?"
"I'll lift you up and you grab them."
Y/N blinked. She hadn't heard anything after 'I'll lift you'.
Not wanting to sound too eager, she pulled on a rather convincing pout. "You hid them up there because you didn't want me stealing any, now you want my help getting them down."
Sherlock rolled his pretty eyes. "Yes, yes, irony. If you help I'll give you some."
"How many?"
If Y/N didn't know any better she'd say he was doing mental calculations; estimating the number of chips in the packet then deciding how many he could spare and still have a satisfying yogurt experience. He would be, if he didn't struggle at maths; something Y/N had found out when she asked him to help her with the monthly bills. Maybe because there's nothing to visualise; his picture-orientated brain doesn't know what to do with it.
"...Seven."
Feigning outrage: "That's not even a handful!"
"Fine, twelve."
"Where are you getting these numbers?"
Something nosed as Y/N's hand and she looked down to see that Basil had risen from his place by the fire to investigate the hubbub. He huffed a little breath of air through his moist nose against her palm; his way of asking 'All good?'. Or so Y/N liked to think.
"Fifteen; that's my last offer." He's smiling now. He'd wiped his dusty hand on his right trouser leg, the white streaks contrasting with the black of the cotton like a ghost cat had clawed at his pocket.
Y/N conceded. "Okay. Just be careful, I'll hit my head on the ceiling." She came over to where Sherlock was standing and felt his arms snake around her waist, tighten, then suddenly her feet were no longer in contact with the ground. "You know," she pointed out, mainly to distract herself from---well, from all of it. The satisfying solidness of his arms. What it felt like to have him support her weight. His body behind hers--- "You could have just stood on a chair." She felt around the top of the cupboard, grimacing as the fluffy results of skipping this particular area during the weekly vacuum clung to the pads of her fingers.
Before Sherlock could answer, Basil suddenly let out a string of incessantly loud barks, the piercing tone shattering the air to pieces.
Both Y/N and Sherlock turned to look at him, scared he was being attacked or something (well, Sherlock turned; Y/N couldn't help turning too, seeing as he was still holding her over a foot off the ground).
As far as anyone could tell, he wasn't being attacked. Unless his assailant was invisible and/or under one centimeter tall. Basil was just standing there, facing the only two humans in the room with his legs spread squarely as if he was in defensive-mode, head pointed to the air and mouth opening as each bark ripped from his lungs.
"What's wrong with him?" Y/N asked over the noise. She almost wished her hand wasn't so grubby; she wanted to cram her fingers in her ears.
Promptly and without answering, Sherlock put her back down and she rushed over to see if Basil would let her soothingly pet his head. He did, shutting his jaw and turning his fuzzy lips up into a smile as Y/N cradled his face, her fingers scratching little circular motions into the base of his ears. His tail wagged from side to side, thumping into the table leg with the muffled sound of his bones bumping into the wood.
When he'd been settled, Y/N asked:
"What was that all about?" She pushed herself back out of her crouching position and returned to where Sherlock still stood by the counter because she hadn't yet managed to retrieve the awol chocolate chips. Distractedly, Sherlock's arms came about her middle once more so he could lift her up for a second try.
Again, Basil immediately started barking.
Y/N's fingertips touched on something that felt like plastic foil and she grabbed at it just as Sherlock put her down, saying as he did so with an amused smile:
"I think he doesn't like it when I pick you up."
Y/N pressed the chocolate chips---dusty and coated in spider webs, but otherwise unharmed---into Sherlock's hand.
He wasn't paying attention to them anymore, just watching Basil with almost scientific interest.
"You think?" Y/N turned to their temporary pet, who, now that he could see she was free and obviously unscathed, was back to his usual contented self.
She felt rather than saw Sherlock shrug. "Let's find out." He came up behind her and a startled yelp escaped Y/N's lips as he scooped her up bridal style, which, as predicted, set Basil off as if a switch had been flicked. Y/N couldn't help her face splitting into a smile. "He's trying to protect me," she laughed, feeling Sherlock's answering chuckles from where she was pressed against his torso. If only Basil would hush for just a second so she could hear them. Although, maybe it's a good thing that she can't; she was already melting like ice cream, about to slide though Sherlock's arms and onto the floor in a puddle. Y/N hooked her arm around his neck to prevent that from happening. It felt like a very real possibility.
When his barks of warning didn't seem to be enough to make Sherlock put Y/N down, he changed tactics and came over to his trouser legs, which he nudged his face into, nipping at the fabric with his front teeth in between low, rumbling growls. It would have been unsettling, had Sherlock not been laughing right by Y/N's ear. It feathered against the side of her face like feathers being run over her skin. Suddenly she was covered in goosebumps.
"He might rip your trousers," she pointed out, having to raise her voice over Basil's baying. It probably wouldn't really matter if he did; Y/N knew that Sherlock had six other identical pairs in his wardrobe just in case something like this should happen (although, granted, he probably hadn't anticipated this exact scenario).
Sherlock took a step backwards, a half-hearted attempt to save his clothes, but mainly to see if Basil would pursue him.
He did, catching the fabric properly now and giving it a warning tug, his barks having to edge around the smooth points of his teeth.
"What is going on up here?"
Y/N and Sherlock looked up in unison to see Mrs Hudson standing in the entrance to their kitchenette, her kindly face creased with bemusment, her bony little hands pushed firmly against the equally bony hips below her floral skirt. It was mid winter but she appeared reluctant to admit it. Sometimes it seemed that Mrs Hudson's flamboyant attire was the only thing left to remind anyone that summer was in fact a thing that had happened, and not some shared hallucination.
Sherlock placed Y/N back on the ground gently, causing Basil to release his leg and quieten back down. It would take several minutes for anyone to experience the silence; their ears were ringing so loudly Y/N almost checked to see if her mobile was receiving a call.
"I was picking Y/N up and Basil seemed to think I was attacking her," Sherlock explained. He was holding out his hand, probably waiting to see if Basil would forgive him and press his wide furry forehead into his palm like he usually does. Said dog gave his fingers a thorough sniffing, running his rough snout over Sherlock's skin before reluctantly accepting his apology. He let Sherlock tentatively pet his neck.
Mrs Hudson is an astute woman, and Sherlock was speaking in English, but that didn't really seem to help. She furrowed her brow at him, as she so often did. He's probably the root cause of several of her wrinkles. "Why were you...?"
"He lost some chocolate chips," Y/N explained, which only confused their landlord more. She made the intelligent choice of electing to swiftly move the conversation along rather than enquiring further. She was here for a reason and had suddenly remembered what it was. Her expression softened and she took her hands from her hips, instead clasping them together in front of her like a doctor about to break some bad news to a patient. "Listen you two---"
Sherlock had sunk to his knees next to Basil now, giving him a doggy-massage to make up for teasing him so. He looked up at Mrs Hudson with contrite. "Sorry for the noise."
The older woman waved off his words like they were a present she really didn't want. "I don't mind, it's been lovely to see you enjoying yourselves. It's a shame Basil has to go, you really---"
"They're here already?" Sherlock cut her off, but she didn't seem to mind that either. Maybe she's used to Sherlock's little Sherlock-isms---anticipates them. Or maybe she really does love him like a son, so she lets a few things slide. Maybe both, because she's giving him a look as if it physically pains her to say:
"Yes." Turing to Y/N now: "Laura and Ted really are lovely, no wonder Basil is so well behaved. They were telling me all about their honeymoon, it sounded so romantic," she trailed off perhaps realizing this wasn't the time. Or that this wasn't her audience.
Sherlock stroked a hand down the length of Basil's back. Probably trying to memorise the feeling of his coarse fur passing under his palm.
Y/N suddenly felt like giving him a hug, but she didn't know how he'd feel about that so placed a hand on his shoulder instead, giving it a squeeze that she hoped was comforting.
Sherlock didn't shrug her away.
"Tell them we'll be down as soon as we've packed up his things."
...
Y/N thought it was ironic---as she stood next to Sherlock on the doorstep, watching Basil be driven out of their lives---that the rain chose this moment to finally stop. It should be pouring down, the sky grey and downcast---in the figurative and literal sense---to reflect the somberness of the occasion, she thinks. But it isn't. Not at the moment. The sky is the same colour as the puddle-strewn pavement, full to the brim like a saturated sponge. As if nature had given up attempting to drown London, just for a second. It had taken pity on the two sad-looking humans saying goodbye to their butterscotch-coloured friend of four legs.
They'd watched Basil's face through the rear window as Laura and Ted drove him away. He had been ecstatic to see his owners, obviously, but as they'd ushered him into the car he'd gazed back at 221B with a look that suggested he knew what was going on and it made him sad.
Sherlock didn't move, even when Basil was totally out of sight. Y/N didn't want to prompt him to go back into the flat, even though the brittle winter chill was sucking her skin into gooseflesh. He needed time. And, if Y/N did nudge him with her elbow, what would she suggest they do anyway? There's nothing they should be doing. No dog that needs walking, no dog food that needs fetching, no pet that needs amusing. So they'll do this. For a bit, anyway.
When Sherlock did eventually move, it was to tip his head back to look at the sky. It was the exact same colour as his eyes; as if them and it were two mirrors facing each other, the reflections nothing but steely grey.
"Do you want to go for a walk?" He asked suddenly, looking down at Y/N beside him.
She was right beside him; the doorway slightly too snug for two bodies to stand comfortably within it without being packed like sardines. Y/N didn't mind and she didn't think Sherlock did either. The contact was soothing.
"It won't be the same without Basil, but I've grown accustomed to it."
Y/N tugged her jumper tighter around herself and smiled up at him. Raising her heart rate would help her warm up, after all. "Sure. Shall we go to the park like we usually do?"
...
Sherlock approved of this idea, his long face brightening now that he had something to do rather than mope around the flat thinking about how much emptier it would be from now on. He'd had the good sense to grab his coat on the way out of the apartment to say goodbye to Basil, but Y/N had not. Sherlock asked her if she'd like to run upstairs and fetch it before they leave, but she waved him off.
"It's not raining anymore," had been her reason, to which Sherlock inclined his broad shoulders in a 'it's your funeral'Â kind of way as they stepped out into the street. The pavement was dotted with tightly-packaged people, all making the most of the dry spell like bees using a break in a storm to stock up on pollen.
The park was equally full of them, if not more so---people, not bees (their time of year was long since over)---all wrapped firmly in warm clothes. Y/N gazed at a woman, who had a faux fur hat wedged on top of her curly blonde head, with slight envy; she was regretting not bringing a coat more and more with every second (and chilly gust of wind) that passed. She wanted to take Sherlock's arm, get into his invitingly spacious coat with him---or something. For once because she was genuinely in need of warmth, not to satisfy that aching desire to be close to him that she didn't seem to be able to shake.
"You're cold," Sherlock said after several minutes of silence, more a statement than a question---can he read minds? He was facing forwards but looking at Y/N through the sides of his eyes. They were creased with a knowing smirk.
Y/N folded her arms over her chest like a petulant child, not to show her discontent at being made fun of, but to conserve heat, clutching it to her chest as like an object she didn't want anyone to steal. "I'm fine." An obvious lie. Her breath was condensing in the air before her, stinging her face as she stepped into it and making her nose a shiny shade of red.
It both managed to somehow concern and amuse Sherlock, who was fighting off the instinctual urge to swaddle her up in something. His arms or his Belstaff, he hadn't decided yet. "Give me your hand," again, a statement, not a suggestion.
It didn't matter; it's not like Y/N is going to refuse, anyway.
Smiling, she unwrapped one arm from the knot of them she'd made at her toso, self-consciously checking for claminess, even though she knew the chances of her having worked up any kind of sweat in this weather was close to nil. If she had, surely it would have frozen by now.
Sherlock had pulled his glove off with his teeth and held out his bare palm between their bodies for Y/N to take. The pads of his fingers were pink, their warmth bringing sensation back to Y/N's skin as they closed around her hand like a defibrillator. "We can turn back, if you want," Sherlock proposed kindly, his tone suggesting to Y/N that he genuinely cared for her wellbeing. Of course he does. She should stop being surprised by it.
"No, it's okay, I'm feeling better now." She wasn't even lying; Sherlock's palm was heating her blood like a pot of water on a stove. "Thanks."
He lifted their clasped hands and slotted them both neatly into his coat pocket. The coarse wool fibres brushed the back of Y/N's hand, she knew when she later removed it it would be covered with little bunches of lint. She gave Sherlock's hand a grateful squeeze, which made him smile.
As the ground beneath their feet changed from crunchy gravel paths to crisp grass, Y/N's brain churned away to itself, trying to generate some kind of conversation starter. Using one of their classics seemed inappropriate, given that they were both in some mild state of mourning. Yet, she knew that discussing what they had lost would only make them blue.
The wind had picked up somewhere between the main entrance to the park and the group of trees Y/N and Sherlock were now amongst, the air shaking the branches and tearing at the few withered leaves as if it wanted to rip them off. Like one of those rotating billboards, the block of light grey clouds had moved on and been replaced by several tightly-packed darker ones. They were rounded and billowing, waterballoons that had been filled beyond their capacity.
Y/N's brain had strung together something to say by this time, and was so proud of itself it gave her no warning before asking quite suddenly: "What were the posters of?"
Sherlock's brows furrowed because he was obviously confused. "What?"
"The other day you said you had a blue bedroom wall, and you put posters up," Y/N explained. "What were they of? Madonna? Janet Jackson? Who else was popular while we were growing up?" She gave him a playful nudge with her elbow and his rosy-cheeks deepened several shades.
"They were actually mainly of maps, butterflies, and a bunch of chemical symbols."
"Why am I not surprised?" Y/N laughed. It pooled before her in swirls of fog, her fond giggle taking on a physical form.
Obviously appreciating the light tone of the conversation, Sherlock said: "There were some photos too. Mostly of my family and I. Although, Mycroft wasn't in many of them. He didn't like having pictures taken. I did, I'd always be pulling stupid faces." He chuckled at the memory and Y/N made a mental note to ask his mother, when she next visits, to bring some. "A lot of the photos were of my dog."
Y/N's expression fell. Tonight there would be no hot Basil-shaped lump at the end of the mattress to heat her toes. "We should have taken more pictures of Basil."
There was a silence, mutual sadness fermenting in the space between them. They had taken a few photos with the retriever but not enough, they were realising with hindsight. Y/N's favorite was the three of them lined up in size order in front of the fire, all looking back over their shoulder at the camera. Mrs Hudson had taken it, having made an 'awwww' sound when she entered the room. It was one of the few pictures Y/N had of Sherlock in her phone. You could probably count them on one hand. For some reason she had assumed he had some kind of aversion to them---thought photography stupid or trivial or somehting else---but he didn't. Not when Mrs Hudson has asked to take one anyway. He just smiled at the lens, held still long enough for the shutters to close, then continued what he'd been doing. The only reason Y/N hadn't responded to this realisation by snapping as many images of him that he and her phone's storage would allow was the fact that Sherlock would probably deem her some kind of stalker.
After a little while, as they followed the perimeter of the lake, Sherlock said: "It's a shame basil is gone. It was fun having him around." His chest rose and fell in Y/N's peripheral vision. He'd sucked in a breath and now forced it out in the form of words that he'd been trying to make himself say for fifteen minutes: "---And because I liked sleeping in the same bed as someone else."
Y/N looked up at him, her mouth falling open in surprise. A gust of January wind made her teeth feel like she was biting into a slushy.
Sherlock must have thought she was raising her eyebrows at his phrasing because he added: "You. I meant I like sharing a bed with you." He kept peeking through his fringe to meet Y/N's eyes, then absconding back to staring at his shiny Oxfords. He let go of her hand for a second, wiping his palm on his coat then taking it again, his pocket suddenly having risen in temperature by several degrees.
"...You can keep sleeping in my room, if you want." Y/N was treading very carefully, but, at the same time, trying to make her tone as casual as possible. It was a difficult task. "Even though we don't have a dog we both want to pet." Y/N has Sherlock's face mapped in her brain, what sort of comment or remark will cause which features to pull into a smile or drag his lips down into a frown. She'd expected her invitation to be one of the things to make him grin, but it didn't. Apparently he still had something he wanted to say.
There was another rise of his chest, another quick snatching of air. He repurposed it in his lungs and handed it to Y/N before he could change his mind: "If we ever do...get married---to each other, when we're older---we'll have our own Basil."
Y/N had wondered if Sherlock had been serious that night, when he'd agreed to making a marriage pact then fell asleep in her arms. She even started to consider the fact that he'd forgotten. Or it had been a dream. Apparently it hadn't. "So you really do like the idea of having a family?" she asked, her voice possessing a clear edge of curiousity.
"Yes." A pause. Sherlock licked his lips to moisten them. "Actually I have an interest in...all of it. The parts before having a family too."
Y/N just huffed a laugh at this. "What? Like being a boyfriend and dating and stuff? I thought you didn't want to meet someone. I thought you called it---what was the word? 'Moronic', once. More than once." She'd bent the fingers of her free hand into little air quotes.
Sherlock obviously hadn't expected that kind of reaction because his mouth pressed into a frown as he said back defensively: "Well I've changed my mind. It actually seems...rather nice." Speaking almost one hundred percent to his shoes now, eye contact a thing of the past: "I've never had anything close to romance...to someone sharing their life with me. I thought I could struggle along without it. But now that I've kind of had a taste of what it's like...I don't think I want to."
He's referring to sharing a bed. Pulling Y/N over to his side and holding her, having her nuzzle her nose into the hollow at the base of his neck. His first taste of romance, even though it hadn't been intended as such.
"You don't think you want to?" Y/N doesn't know why she's messing with him, weaseling confessions out of him. She doesn't even know what to do with them now that she has them. The ones he had handed over already were too bare, too vulnerable, too uncharacteristically innocent. Y/N didn't want to hold them because she was scared she'd break them.
Sherlock scratched the back of his neck, turning his coat-collar up where it had fallen limply down into its default position. He wasn't trying to keep the wind away, he was trying to funnel it in, against his skin to cool the flush that extended into his shirt and down to his collarbones. "I don't want to struggle along without it. I liked it. All of it."
Y/N caught their reflection in the still water of the lake to their left. She liked what she saw. She wasn't even admiring herself, how she looked with a handsome man on her arm. She was looking at Sherlock's face; just the side of it, the clean line of his cheekbone pink. She'd never get used to seeing him blush, and she'd never get used to the fact that she always seemed to be the root cause of it. "I liked it too," she stated
There were several beats of silence. A raindrop fell onto the surface of the pond and sent a ripple through it like a silk curtain that someone had given a little shake.
Softly, soft and small and yet so significant---like the raindrop that had the power to upset an entire lake: "Why don't we be in one together? A relationship."
Y/N laughed again, not believing him. Or she was so shocked her brain didn't process the words. Or a mixture of the two. "We've already agreed to get married if we're both single at forty-five. I was serious about that."
"Me too. But I mean...why don't we try being together before that. Not because we agreed to and are scared of being alone---or whatever---but because we...want to."