“You should sleep,” I murmur.
“Can’t.” His voice is rough. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there—him telling me it’s just a phase and that I need to get my head on straight.”
My throat goes tight. “This isn’t a phase,” I say. Then softer, “You hear me? Nothing about you needs fixing.”
He swallows, nodding against me. “It’s hard to believe that sometimes.”
“Then let me keep reminding you until you do.”
He lets out a breath that shakes through both of us. I can feel it all the way down to my ribs.
Minutes pass—maybe longer. The city noise fades; the light from the window turns the room gold as the sun starts to set. Todd’s breathing slows until it matches mine, the weight of him growing heavier in my arms.
He mumbles something I almost miss. “You still mad at me?”
I smile against his hair. “A little. But I’m more tired than mad.”
“Fair.” His voice slurs with exhaustion.
“Next time you need to breathe,” I whisper, “just…do it here, okay?”
He nods, the motion small and sleepy. “Okay.”
I press one last kiss to his temple, lingering there until my eyes close too.
The world narrows to warmth, the soft rasp of his breathagainst my throat, and the quiet promise sitting between us—fragile but real.
By the time the heat sighs again, he’s asleep in my arms, and for the first time since that picture hit the internet, I finally believe we might be okay.
The first thingI feel is warmth. Heavy, real, and pressed against me like the night finally decided to give something back.
For a second, I don’t open my eyes. I just let myself exist in the weight of it—the slow, steady rise and fall against my chest, the quiet hum of his breathing, the faint scent of Todd’s shampoo clinging to his hair.
When I finally look down, he’s sprawled half across me, face buried against my neck, one arm draped over my ribs. His hand has slipped beneath my shirt, skin to skin, his fingers resting against my stomach like he needed the contact to sleep.
Something in my chest clenches hard.
The morning light sneaks through the blinds, striping his back in pale gold. It catches in his dark hair, the strands curling slightly against my chin.
My body reacts to the closeness—inevitable, unintentional—but I don’t shift. I don’t want to ruin this with movement or thought or anything that might remind him how easily everything could still fall apart.
So I just breathe.
His breath ghosts across my throat, and my hand moves on instinct, tracing the line of his spine with my thumb. He murmurs something in his sleep, something soft andunintelligible, but it sounds like my name.
That’s what undoes me.
I press my lips to the top of his head, barely touching, a whisper of a kiss. Then another, just below his ear. I can’t seem to stop. Every small press feels like proof he’s real—proof that I didn’t dream the apology, the forgiveness, the quiet way he saidtogether.
He stirs but doesn’t wake, only shifts closer, his fingers twitching against my skin before settling again. I close my eyes and let the moment hold me. The world outside can wait—practice, headlines, all of it. For now, this is enough.
For now, he’s here.
And I’m not letting go, ever again.
Todd stirs against me, a soft hum vibrating through his chest. Then his hand flexes where it’s resting under my shirt, fingertips brushing my stomach. I feel the shiver ripple through me before I can stop it.
He shifts again, the movement slow and lazy—and then he freezes. A heartbeat later, he tilts his head just enough for his lips to graze my throat.
