The silence swells, but this time it doesn’t drown. It wraps around us, fog dense, unspoken, full of ache. I blink hard. Somewhere inside, the chorus of an old lyric echoes. Don’t fall, don’t break, don’t ask to be saved.
When he stands, I expect him to leave. To give me space, pretending it’s some noble gesture. But he doesn’t. He justmoves to the bed, sitting beside me. Close, but not touching. His presence is a quiet promise.
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t demand. He just is. No one’s ever done that for me. I don’t look at him. But I feel the warmth at my side. Steady. Uncomplicated. Mine.
So I don’t send him away.
We stay there, side by side, as if we’re strangers who know too much. We don’t get under the covers. Don’t pretend this is something it’s not. Just lay back, both of us fully clothed, a chasm of years and pain between us.
Eventually, I curl onto my side, facing the wall. He stays on his back, arms behind his head. Breathing steady. Breathing for both of us. The rhythm of his breath syncs with mine, a song without words.
In the dark, I whisper, “Do you ever wish you could forget? Everything. Not just the bad stuff. All of it. Start clean. Be someone new.”
His silence stretches so long, I think maybe he won’t answer.
Then… “I used to. Before I met you.” It doesn’t come with weight. Or pity. Just truth. Soft and wrecking.
I look at him. He’s staring at the ceiling, the truth having burned holes through it. Malachi doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to.
It guts me. I shift closer. Just a little. Just enough. A lyric pulses at the edge of my thoughts. Something in me stays when I should go.
“Stay,” I whisper. “Just for tonight.”
His body exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since I walked away from him in the rain.
“Yeah,” he says. “I can do that.”
We don’t get under the covers. Don’t crawl toward each other pretending to be lovers or press our foreheads together the way a movie ending would. We just stretch out on top of the bed. Fullyclothed, not touching, the space between us thick with the ghosts we carry. And still… something in me untangles.
I lie on my side, facing the wall. He lies on his back, hands behind his head like he’s holding up the weight of something invisible. The silence returns but it’s not cold this time. Just there. Full of breath and heartbeat and all the things we’re still too afraid to say.
Minutes pass. Or maybe more. My body stays tense, waiting for regret to crawl in and take over. But it doesn’t.
Then, through the dark, his voice—low, rough around the edges, costing him something just to speak.
“I didn’t mean to fall for you.” My chest stutters. My fingers twitch where they rest near my heart. “But I did.”
I don’t move. Don’t answer. I just let the words hang there, bare and trembling, until they find a place to land inside me.
I close my eyes. And let that truth curl into the dark with me.
I wake slowly. Not with the jolt of nightmares or the sharp breath of panic. Just… drifting. Sleep not wanting to let me go. The sheets are warm against my skin. Heavy with breath and something else. Something tethering.
It’s warm. Too warm. There’s a weight across my waist. A steady rhythm beneath my ear. The faint smell of leather and cedar and that clean heat that only belongs to one person. My eyes blink open.
His chest is the first thing I see. Broad. Steady. Bare beneath the hem of his shirt, where it’s ridden up just enough for skin to find mine. I freeze. The air catches in my lungs. His skin is warm against mine—too familiar, too easy. The quiet here is deeper than silence. It’s trust.
Malachi’s arm is slung around me, heavy and protective, belonging there. One of my legs is tangled with his. My fingers are curled into his shirt, clutching him in my sleep, as if he’s something I needed.
I don’t remember moving. Don’t remember shifting closer. But somehow, somehow, we ended up this way. Tangled. Quiet. Too close. His heartbeat pulses under my cheek. Steady. Strong. It hums through me, settling deep in my bones.
His breath brushes the top of my head, even. Calm. Still asleep. I close my eyes for one suspended breath and let myself feel the moment. The scent of him. The weight of his arm. That strange, terrifying calm in my own chest.
And I should move. Should untangle myself before he wakes up and sees how far I’ve slipped. But I don’t. Not yet. Because for one impossible second, I let myself feel it; the way his body curves around mine, armor against the world. The quiet of his chest rising and falling, a rhythm I forgot I trusted. How my heart isn’t racing and I’m not scared.
The way it feels safe, and that alone makes my throat tighten.
I hate it. I hate how easy it is to stay.
