I don’t feel trapped.
I feel chosen.
And I'm choosing him back.
When I shift, he tightens his hold reflexively, nose brushing my hair.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.
I smile without opening my eyes. “You snore.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest, and presses a kiss to my temple. “Still here?”
I turn in his arms to face him. “Still here.”
That seems to satisfy something in him. His shoulders relax. His thumb traces idle circles against my hip. Not possessive. Not claiming.
Just there.
We fall into a rhythm faster than I expect.
Not routines—those always made me itch—but patterns. The kind that leave room to breathe.
Coffee together in the mornings. Not rushed. Sometimes in silence, sometimes trading comments about news headlines or Olga’s newest reign of terror. He listens when I talk, really listens, even when I ramble about things that don’t matter to anyone but me.
Especially then.
At night, we end up tangled together on the couch more often than not, legs draped over each other, some documentary playing that neither of us is actually watching. His hand always finds mine. Always.
And I let it.
That might be the biggest difference.
Letting him be there doesn’t feel like losing myself.
It feels like finding space I didn’t know I was allowed to take up.
A week after the hospital, Mrs. D is transferred to rehab.
We take Olga to visit her the first afternoon she’s cleared for company. Langston insists on carrying the dog into the building like she’s royalty, even as she squirms dramatically in his arms.
Mrs. D laughs when she sees him. Full-on cackles.
“Oh honey,” she tells me, waving a hand. “That man was made to be bossed around by a woman.”
Langston raises an eyebrow. “I’m standing right here.”
She pats his arm. “Good. Then listen.”
The way he grins at her—soft, respectful, amused—makes my chest ache in a way that feels dangerously close to love.
I catch myself watching him more lately.
Not because I’m unsure.
