He listens without interrupting. When I glance up, his eyes are closed, but he's not asleep. His thumb traces circles on my hip.
When I finish, he doesn't say anything. Just keeps tracing those circles.
"Well?" I ask. "Terrible? Embarrassing? Should I burn it?"
"Don't you dare burn it." He opens his eyes. "It's good. Really good."
"You're biased."
"Probably." He kisses my forehead. "Still good."
I set the notebook aside. Curl into him.
"What happens after tomorrow?" I ask.
He's quiet. I feel him war with himself—the instinct to deflect, to protect us both from the answer.
"I don't know," he says finally. "But I know I don't want to lose you."
"Then don't."
"It's not that simple."
"It could be." I look up at him. "I'm not asking you to have it all figured out. I'm asking you to try. Can you do that?"
He doesn't answer right away. Outside, a bird calls—something I can't identify.
"Yeah," he says. His voice cracks on the word. "I can try."
I kiss him. Soft. Slow. A promise neither of us is ready to put into words.
***
We make dinner together.
He chops vegetables while I man the stove—his instructions, my execution. Turns out I'm not hopeless at cooking when someone actually explains what they're doing and why.
"More garlic," he says, looking over my shoulder.
"There's already four cloves in here."
"And?"
"That's a lot of garlic."
"There's no such thing as too much garlic." He reaches around me, drops another clove in the pan. "Vampires hate this house."
I laugh. Actually laugh—full and surprised and real. His arms tighten around my waist and he presses a kiss to my neck, right below my ear, and I lean back into him.
This. This is what it's supposed to feel like.
Not the fear. Not the hiding. Not the constant weight of what-ifs pressing down on my chest.
Just this. Two people making dinner. Being together. Being happy.
I didn't know I was allowed to have this.
After dinner, we end up on the couch. Some old movie playing on Murphy's ancient TV, the volume too low to really hear. I'm tucked under his arm, my feet in his lap, his hand tracing absent patterns on my ankle.
