Broken Records | Tayley

Chapter 14: A New Normal

Hayley's POV

The days had settled into a new rhythm, one that felt both familiar and entirely new. The quiet hum of everyday life wrapped itself around Taylor and me, filling the spaces between us with something solid, something real. It was the kind of peace I hadn't known I needed until it was mine.

Most mornings began the same way: waking up to the soft light filtering through the curtains, Taylor's arm draped lazily over me. Alf, ever the loyal companion, would jump onto the bed and nuzzle his way between us, demanding his share of the morning affection. Taylor would groan, his voice heavy with sleep, but his hand would still reach out to give Alf a good scratch behind the ears. I would laugh, the sound light and easy, and the day would begin.

The routine wasn't planned—it just evolved naturally. One day, after waking up at my place, Taylor had joked about how Alf was starting to expect breakfast in bed. The next night, we stayed over at his house, a spontaneous decision after a late-night writing session had turned into an impromptu jam session. Alf came along, of course, settling in like he owned the place. And just like that, our lives began to weave together, our days blending into one long, comfortable stretch of time.

Some days, we'd stay in, each of us finding our own corner of the house to work in. Taylor would set up in the living room, his guitar in hand, lost in the music he was creating. I'd find myself at the kitchen table, a notebook open in front of me, the words flowing more easily than they had in years. Sometimes, I'd catch him humming a melody, and I'd pause, listening, letting the music seep into whatever I was writing.

Other days, we'd go out, taking Alf for long walks through the neighborhood or grabbing coffee at our favorite spot down the street. There was a simplicity to those moments that I cherished—the feel of Taylor's hand in mine as we strolled through the park, Alf trotting happily beside us. The way we'd sit on a bench, sipping our coffee, watching the world go by as if we had all the time in the world.

One afternoon, we decided to drive out to the lake. It was a warm, sunny day, the kind that begged for an escape from the city. We packed a small picnic, threw Alf's favorite ball into the car, and headed out. The drive was filled with easy conversation, the kind that flowed naturally between us. When we got there, we found a quiet spot by the water, spreading out a blanket and settling in.

Taylor played his guitar, the sound of it blending with the gentle lapping of the water against the shore. I lay back on the blanket, my eyes closed, letting the music wash over me. Alf ran around, chasing after birds and sticks, his bark echoing through the trees. It was one of those perfect moments, where everything seemed to align just right, and for the first time in a long while, I felt like I could breathe deeply, without the weight of the world pressing down on me.

In the evenings, we'd cook dinner together, a new habit we'd formed without even realizing it. I'd chop vegetables while Taylor manned the stove, the two of us moving around the kitchen in a kind of synchronized dance. We'd talk about everything and nothing—new ideas for songs, stories from our day, random thoughts that popped into our heads. There was an ease between us, a comfort that came from years of knowing each other, but also from something new, something we were still discovering together.

After dinner, we'd often find ourselves in the living room, the remnants of our meal still on the coffee table as we curled up on the couch. Alf would claim his spot between us, his head resting on my lap, his tail occasionally thumping against Taylor's leg. We'd watch movies or listen to records, sometimes talking, sometimes just sitting in contented silence, soaking in the presence of the other.

Even when we weren't directly interacting, there was a comfort in knowing Taylor was nearby, in the same house, just a room away. I'd catch glimpses of him as I moved through the day—bent over his guitar, lost in a new chord progression, or sprawled out on the couch, a book in hand. He'd smile at me, that soft, lazy smile that always made my heart skip a beat, and I'd smile back, feeling that quiet warmth spread through me.

It wasn't always perfect, of course. We had our moments—small misunderstandings, the occasional clash of opinions—but they never lasted long. We'd talk things out, finding our way back to each other with the ease that came from years of friendship and the new depth that came from whatever this was that we were building together.

One night, after a particularly long day in the studio, we came back to my place, exhausted but happy with the progress we'd made. Alf trotted in ahead of us, heading straight for his bed in the corner of the living room. I smiled at the sight, my heart swelling with a kind of contentment I hadn't felt in years.

Taylor followed me into the kitchen, grabbing a couple of glasses and pouring us some water. We stood there for a moment, leaning against the counter, sipping our drinks in silence. The day had been long, but it was a good kind of tired, the kind that came from doing something we loved.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" Taylor said, breaking the silence, his voice low and soft.

"Yeah," I agreed, setting my glass down and turning to look at him. "It really does."

We shared a smile, one of those quiet, knowing smiles that seemed to say everything without the need for words. And then, just like that, the moment passed, and we moved on to the next—putting away the dishes, getting ready for bed, falling into the easy routine we'd built together.

As I crawled into bed that night, Taylor right behind me, I couldn't help but marvel at how naturally everything had fallen into place. It was like we'd been building up to this all along, without even realizing it. And now that we were here, it just felt right.

He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close, and I settled into his embrace, my head resting on his chest. His heartbeat was a steady rhythm beneath my ear, lulling me into a sense of calm I hadn't known I needed.

"Goodnight, Hayley," he murmured, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Goodnight, Taylor," I whispered back, my eyes already drifting closed.

As I fell asleep, wrapped in his arms, I couldn't help but think that maybe, just maybe, this was exactly where I was meant to be.