Rain was soft against the windowpane, not in a cinematic thunderstorm kind of way, but in the quiet drizzle that made everything feel like it was wrapped in wool. The kind of rain that made you want to stay indoors, drink something warm, and talk about things that didn't always have words.
Violet sat on the rug in their living room, her notebook open across her knees, watching Adam fiddle with an old film camera he found in a thrift store. A week had passed since their small art show, and something had changed—not in a loud, dramatic way, but in the subtle way two people become more sure of each other's presence.
"I developed those photos you took at the gallery," Adam said without looking up. "They're beautiful. There's one of you reading onstage. The light's hitting your face like... I don't know. Like you're exactly where you belong."
Violet's smile came slow. "Maybe I was."
She flipped her notebook closed and set it aside. "What are you going to do with them?"
"I was thinking of framing a few. Giving one to Theo and Maya. One to your mom, maybe."
"She'd cry."
"She already did when you called her after the show."
They laughed together, the warmth between them like a shared blanket.
---
Later that afternoon, Maya dropped by unannounced, which had become her habit since Violet opened up about everything that had happened with her family. She brought coffee and samosas and didn't even wait to be invited in.
"You need better snacks," she said, pushing past Adam and dropping her bag onto the couch.
Violet raised a brow. "You're lucky we like you."
"I'm everyone's favorite," Maya said with mock arrogance, handing over the food. "You should hear what Theo says when he's drunk. Hero worship."
"Tell him I'll sign his forehead next time," Adam said dryly.
Maya flopped onto the couch. "So, have you two talked about it yet?"
"Talked about what?" Violet asked, half-chewing a samosa.
Maya raised an eyebrow. "The future."
Adam and Violet exchanged a glance.
"Well," Adam began slowly, "we've talked about opening a joint studio."
"Kind of like an artist collective," Violet added. "Workshops, photography, readings. A space that's not too polished, where people can just… belong."
Maya leaned forward, eyes sparkling. "That's amazing. But that's not what I meant."
Violet narrowed her eyes. "Maya."
"You know," she said casually. "Marriage. Babies. Scary little humans with your curls and Adam's judgmental stare."
Adam actually choked on his coffee.
Violet threw a pillow at Maya.
"I'm just saying!" Maya cackled. "I'm the best friend, I get to plant these little ideas."
"We're not there yet," Violet said after a moment. "But… we're somewhere."
Adam reached over and took her hand.
"Wherever that is," he said, "I like it."
---
That night, Violet stood brushing her teeth, watching Adam through the mirror. He was folding laundry on their bed, humming something tuneless.
She rinsed her mouth and asked, "Do you ever think about it?"
"Marriage?"
She nodded.
He paused mid-fold, then sat on the edge of the bed.
"Yeah," he said softly. "I do."
Violet crossed the room and sat beside him.
"I didn't always believe in it," she confessed. "Not after seeing what it did to my parents. What silence did to them."
"I know."
"But this… us… it doesn't feel like a contract. It feels like a decision I keep making. Every morning."
He turned to her, eyes soft. "Exactly that."
There was no proposal that night. No ring. Just quiet understanding. But somehow, it felt more intimate than any grand gesture.
---
The next morning, Violet woke before Adam, tucked into his side. She slipped out of bed quietly, tiptoed to her desk, and picked up a brush.
Not a pen.
Not her laptop.
A paintbrush.
She hadn't painted since university, when a professor told her she was "too literary" for visual art. But the urge came strong and sudden. She dipped into a dusty set of watercolors and began with a single line. Then another. Then a shape.
An outline of their apartment window.
Then the tiny crack in the mug Adam always used.
Then the books stacked like skyscrapers near the couch.
Not perfect.
But honest.
She painted for an hour before Adam padded in, rubbing his eyes. He blinked at the scene.
"Is this new?"
She nodded. "I think I'm remembering how to be many things."
He kissed her shoulder and whispered, "You always were."
---
The weeks passed in gentle rhythms.
They began scouting small rental spaces for their art studio. Some were too sterile. Some too expensive. One smelled vaguely of cat pee. But one sunny Thursday afternoon, they found it.
A corner unit with tall windows, worn brick walls, and a skylight that poured gold into the wooden floor. It had a history—an old tailor's shop from the '70s—and character.
Violet stood in the center of the room, spun slowly, and said, "This is it."
Adam agreed.
They signed the lease the next day.
Called it: Studio Still.
Because in a world that moved fast, they wanted a space where stillness mattered.
---
Opening day was small—invitation-only. They lit candles. Played soft music. Friends brought homemade cookies and origami cranes. Theo cried when Violet read a poem about beginnings. Maya threatened to move in and live under the worktable.
People came in unsure and left smiling.
One teenage girl, barely fifteen, showed Violet a dog-eared journal and whispered, "I write poems too."
Violet didn't just nod.
She handed her the same leather journal Adam had once given her and said, "Then you're already a poet."
---
That night, as they closed up the studio and stepped into the cool air, Adam reached for her hand.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
In the quiet between the noise, there was everything.
Everything they built.
Everything they lost.
Everything still coming.
And they were ready.
Together.
---