Because I’m certain.
One night, after dinner, we end up in bed earlier than usual. Not because we’re tired—because neither of us wants to be anywhere else.
He’s stretched out on his back, one arm behind his head. I’m half on top of him, tracing absentminded patterns across his chest while he scrolls through something on his phone.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking up.
“I’m thinking.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
I hum. “You’re different when you’re not hiding.”
That gets his attention. He locks his phone and looks at me fully. “Am I?”
“Yes.” I shift closer, resting my chin on his chest. “You don’t feel… sharp anymore.”
His brow furrows. “Sharp?”
“Like everything around you has edges.” I shrug. “You’re softer now.”
He studies me for a long moment, then reaches up and cups the back of my neck. “That’s because I’m not afraid of you leaving.”
The words land quietly. No accusation. No weight.
Just truth.
I kiss him then. Slow. Easy. The kind of kiss that doesn’t need to prove anything.
When I settle back against him, he wraps both arms around me, pulling me flush.
“Get used to this,” he murmurs. “I like you here.”
I smile into his chest, heart steady, body relaxed.
“I already am.”
Days blur together in the best way.
Work mornings. Long lunches when we can steal them. Evenings where we cook badly together or order in and laugh about it. He doesn’t crowd me. I don’t feel the need to run.
And every night, no matter how the day goes, we end up back in the same place.
His bed.
Our bed.
Curled together, limbs tangled, falling asleep to the quiet certainty that neither of us is going anywhere.
And for the first time since my mother died, that thought doesn’t scare me.
It comforts me.
Craving
Langston
Iwake up with her hair in my face.
