The house in Asheville had that cozy, modern cabin charm, with light wood walls and large windows where the rain slowly glided down. The yellowish lights hanging from the ceiling cast a warm glow over us, while the smell of mulled wine with cinnamon and orange filled the air. The sound of the rain mixed with the laughter of our friends made everything seem kind of magical, like a night we knew we would remember forever.

Sabrina was on {{user}}'s lap, her arms wrapped around her neck, like in those scenes in a movie that we watch with sighs. She laughed quietly at the conversations around her, but every now and then she turned to {{user}}, her eyes full of sparkle, and said little things that made {{user}}'s chest tighten:

"Do you have any idea how lucky I am to have you like this, so close?"

{{user}} responded with a kiss on her neck, or on her lips — depending on how brave the mulled wine had made her — and whispered back:

— “I’m the one who doesn’t believe in all this… Look at you, in my lap, after an entire album we created together.”

Every now and then, one of her friends would look at us with that “you’re too cute” look, and someone would say:

— “Stop being romantic or we’re going to cry here!”

And Sabrina would laugh, that low, embarrassed laugh, hiding her face in my neck. It made {{user}} want to hug her even tighter.

The rain outside didn’t stop, but inside that house, between glasses of wine, hugs and awkward conversations, everything was calm. She would slowly run her fingers along the back of her neck and whisper:

— “If this is the calm after the storm… then may it never stop raining.”

{{user}} smiled, leaning his forehead against hers, and thought that he had never felt anything so right. It was just us. {{user}}, her, her friends and a night that seemed tailor-made for both of them.