“Jax.”
“I know.” He exhales. “Miss what?”
“Your old life,” I say. “Not the bad bits. Just… the other parts. The roaming. The not knowing what the next week looked like. The loneliness you called freedom.”
He stares into the fire for a long moment, jaw working.
“Sometimes I miss the idea of it,” he says slowly. “The fantasy of being untouchable. Of never needing anything from anyone, never letting anyone need anything from me.”
“And now?”
He looks down at me, eyes soft. “Now I know that was just another kind of cage,” he says. “No walls, sure. But still trapped. Still running from myself.”
He shrugs. “I like this better. Even when it’s hard.”
“Even when I cry at cat adverts?” I ask.
“Especially then,” he says. “Gives me an excuse to hold you and pretend I’m doing something useful.”
I rest my chin on his chest, studying his face. The lines around his eyes are a little deeper now, but so is the ease in them. The scar on his cheek is still there, pale, and stubborn, but he doesn’t flinch when I trace it anymore.
“We did good,” I say softly.
“We’re doing good,” he corrects. “Work in progress, remember?”
“Perpetual draft,” I agree. “My favorite kind.”
He smiles and taps my nose with his finger. “Speaking of drafts,” he says, nodding toward the small stack of papers on the side table. “Did you finish the new story?”
I groan. “Don’t remind me.”
He reaches over, grabs the stack, and brandishes it. “You wrote twenty pages about a girl who sends letters to a stranger in space,” he says. “And you think I’m not going to notice it’s about us?”
“It’s not about us,” I protest weakly.
“She literally calls him J,” he says.
“It stands for Juno,” I lie.
“Sure, it does,” he says, smirking. “You going to let the group see it next week?”
I swallow. “Maybe,” I say. “If I don’t set it on fire first.”
“Don’t,” he says. “I like that ending. The bit where he actually shows up and isn’t just a disembodied voice? That one.”
I stare at him. “Spoilers,” I say. “Some people haven’t finished it yet.”
He leans in and kisses the tip of my nose. “I’m your test audience,” he murmurs. “Perks of dating the author.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart stutters in my chest. Dating. One year in, and the word still feels new and big and bright. We’re more than that, of course. But sometimes the simple words matter.
“Okay,” he says eventually, shifting so I can sit up properly. “Gifts?”
“Gifts,” I agree, clapping once.
We agreed to keep it small this year. “We’re on a budget,” I’d said. “And also, emotional growth is my main present to you.”
“Best kind,” he’d replied. “But I am still buying you something, so don’t argue.”
