“You made dinner. That’s enough.”
“It’s not—it’s not a gift exactly.” He crossed to the bookshelf, pulled something from behind a stack of books. “I found it lastweek. In Sarah’s things. I think she would have wanted you to have it.”
It was a small box. Velvet, old, the kind that held jewelry. My heart stuttered.
“Marcus—”
“It’s not a ring,” he said quickly. “I’m not—we’re not—I mean, someday, maybe, but—” He took a breath. “Just open it.”
I opened it.
Inside was a brooch. Small, delicate, shaped like a key. The metal was tarnished with age, but there was something about it—a warmth, a hum I could almost feel.
“Sarah collected things that resonated,” Marcus said quietly. “Objects that felt different. She never knew why, but she was drawn to them.” He touched the edge of the box. “I think this one was waiting for you.”
I lifted the brooch out carefully. The moment my fingers touched it, I felt it—a pulse of something, like recognition. Like the object knew me.
“It’s magical,” I breathed.
“I thought it might be.” He watched me turn it over in my hands. “It seemed right. A key. For someone who finally stopped keeping all the doors open.”
My eyes stung. “Marcus.”
“You don’t have to wear it. I just thought?—”
I kissed him. Cut off whatever he was going to say with my mouth on his, pouring everything I couldn’t find words for into the contact.
When I pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
“Thank you,” I said. “For the brooch. For dinner. For all of it.”
“Thank you for staying.”
“I keep telling you?—”
“I know. But I keep needing to hear it.” He pulled me closer. “I’m working on that.”
We stood there for a moment, wrapped up in each other, the brooch warm in my palm. Then his hands started to wander, and my breath caught, and dinner became significantly less important.
“The food will get cold,” I managed.
“I can reheat it.”
“Very practical.”
“I’m a practical man.”
“We don’t have to—” I started.
“I want to.”
His voice was low, rough, and something in my chest cracked open.
“I want to,” he said again, quieter this time. “I’ve been telling myself I wasn’t ready. That it was too soon. That I needed more time.” He reached up, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, and the gentleness of it made my breath catch. “But I think I was just scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of wanting something this much.” His hand slid down to cup my jaw, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “It’s been so long since I wanted anything. I forgot what it felt like.”
