Jamie, who never asked me to be anything other than honest. Jamie, who looks at me like I’m allowed to exist exactly as I am. Jamie, who knows every ugly, scared part of me—and still crawls into my bed like it’s home.
Being with him feels like exhaling after holding my breath for years.
Here, in this city where no one knows our names, I can touch him without flinching.
I can kiss him without checking over my shoulder.
I can wake up next to the man I love and think,This is what it’s supposed to feel like.
And God—if anyone ever tried to take that from me? Tried to hurt him? Make him feel small?
I’d burn the world down.
I don’t know how we’ll do it yet. I don’t know when I’ll be brave enough to stop hiding. But I know this—Jamie is not the mistake. Losing him would be.
He’s my truth. My peace. The first thing in my life that feels real in a way nothing else ever has.
I swallow hard, take a slow sip of coffee, and breathe through the tightness in my chest.
Then I straighten, turn back to the counter, and start cracking eggs.
Because when Jamie wakes up, I want there to be breakfast waiting.
Just a small gesture to show him how much I love him.
****
I hear the bedroom door before I see him.
Soft footsteps. The quiet creak of the floor.
When I turn around, Jamie’s standing there in my kitchen wearingmyshirt—nothing else visible beneath it—and ithits me all over again how unreal this feels. The fabric hangs loose on his frame, sleeves too long, collar slipping off one shoulder like it belongs there. Likehebelongs there.
Mine.
The thought settles deep in my chest, heavy and sure.
He pads over without saying anything, wraps his arms around my waist, and presses a light kiss between my shoulder blades. Easy. Domestic. Like this is normal.
“Breakfast smells amazing,” he murmurs.
“Didn’t know you could cook.”
I scoff dramatically, turning just enough to look down at him.
“Wow. I see how it is. I leave the country with you and suddenly I’m being personally attacked in my own kitchen.”
He laughs, that soft, sleepy sound that still feels like a reward every time I hear it.
I slide a hand back and give his ass a sharp smack—not mean, not gentle either. Just enough to make him gasp and grin.
“Rude,” he says, but he’s smiling, eyes bright.
“Untrue,” I reply, leaning down to kiss him properly this time.
When we pull apart, he brushes his nose against mine.
“I’m gonna shower. Can you make me a latte? The good one.”
