When she laid next to him, she felt at home. A warm nostalgia coursed through her. He reminded her of the past, linking the distant past with the present, skipping that problematic recent past. She would lay there and stare at his details, his hair, his beard, his ears, his nipples. She could feel the air around her, not too hot, not too cold. The smell of the loft, the concrete palpable in her nostrils, contrasted with the soft sheets imbued faintly with laundry detergent.
She loved his bookshelves. They reminded her of his intelligence. She loved his glasses and his wardrobe. She loved to wake up first and make coffee in the kitchen, close as it was to the bed. She would sit at the small table while she drank and watch the city come to life through the window. It was particularly satisfying on cold, rainy days, for some reason.
Everything was good. After the coffee and maybe some food, she would either find some fresh clothes from her bag or make the quick trip home before work. He would just be waking up, pleased to find the coffee made, shuffling around somewhat aimlessly, admiringly observing her movements around the apartment. She would give him a peck goodbye, lingering to breathe in his scent, and walk with a slight skip out the door.