“We absolutely do,” I agreed. “A place for morning coffee. Birdwatching. Star gazing. All the domestic luxuries I swore I’d never care about.”
“And yet?”
“And yet,” I said, sliding my arms around his middle, “I find myself craving those quiet moments more than anything.”
He rested his hands over mine. “You’ve changed.”
“So have you.”
He shook his head slightly. “I didn’t change. I stopped hiding.”
“The term is growth.” I winked.
His honesty still disarmed me sometimes — not because he’d never been vulnerable before, but because he offered it so freely now.
With me.
“For the record,” I said lightly, “I want credit for not freaking out when you suggested buying a house.”
“Oh, you freaked out,” he corrected gently.
“I didnot.”
“You said do you know who I am multiple times.”
“I was clarifying your expectations,” I argued.
“You also asked if homeownership was a gateway drug that eventually leads to secretly wanting children.”
I groaned into his shoulder. “I was having a moment.”
He kissed the side of my head. “I liked your moment.”
I leaned back enough to see his eyes. “Even when I spiraled?”
“Especially then,” he said. “Because you stayed.”
I swallowed. “Yeah. I stayed.”
“And I’m glad you did,” he murmured.
I cupped his cheek, thumb brushing the faint stubble. “You know… some people talk about falling in love like it’s an explosion. A burst. A singular dramatic moment. But with you?”
He waited.
“It was a slow sunrise,” I said. “Soft and warm and steady. And one day I looked over and realized the whole world was lit.”
His breath caught.
Then something shifted across his face.
“You want to know what it felt like for me?” he asked.
I nodded.
“It felt like coming home after being lost too long.”
My throat tightened.
