The patio was a storm—
    glasses, laughter,
    televisions singing in three languages—

    then Coal slipped the leash,
    sprinted straight into my ribs,
    and the whole night narrowed
    to a smile I couldn’t stop.

You arrived a beat later,
    and the noise did what noise does—
                                 rose,
                              swirled,
                        forgot itself…

    while we made a small room in the middle of it,
    a pocket-sized quiet that knew our names.

We didn’t need the ten-minute hug,
   the shorter one held like it meant it.

Plays happened,
      games tilted,
      the crowd threw its weather,
      but our table kept a private climate—

      your knee, my hand, Coal’s contented sigh.

Us being us,
   the only score that mattered.

Walked y’all to the car,
       night ringing with everyone else’s joy,
       and ours—quieter,

       but bright in the ways that last.

For tonight, I’m thinking simple,
    St. Julep, tacos on the roof—
    wind in our sleeves,
    city lights pretending to be stars…

    then down to 308,
        no timetable,
        no elsewhere,
           just here.

Couch or covers,
      your call.

I’ll bring the softest yes.

There’s a crowd wherever we go,
        let them have the roar.

We’ll make our room inside it—
      the one with your laugh at the door,
      Coal dozing like punctuation,

      and a quiet that holds exactly the two of us.