I am simply early.
Margot stands at the island, her back to me. She chops vegetables with a rhythm that used to be frantic but is now steady. The candlelight catches the stray hairs escaping her messy bun, turning them into spun gold.
“You’re early,” she says, not turning around. She can sense me. The air in the room shifts when we occupy the same space now, not with tension, but with gravity.
“I clocked out,” I say, tossing my keys into the bowl. The sound is final. “No crisis. No emergencies. Just us.”
She turns, wiping her hands on a towel. Her smile isn’t the polite, guarded thing she wore for the first six months of my probation. It reaches her eyes.
“I’m making carbonara,” she says. “The real way. No cream.”
“Brave,” I say, stepping into her orbit. I kiss her cheek, lingering for a second to breathe in the scent of her skin. “How was the collective?”
“Loud,” she admits, leaning back against the counter. “Chaotic. And... mine.” She pauses, studying my face. “They asked me to lead the community outreach program. Effective Monday.”
Pride swells in my chest—not the competitive pride I used to feel when she looked good at a gala, but a deep, quiet reverence for who she is becoming.
“They’d be idiots not to,” I say. “You’re going to run that place in a month.”
“I might,” she laughs. “What about you? Did you save the world today?”
“I saved a porch,” I correct her, pouring two glasses of the wine we’ve been saving. “And we got the permits for the library renovation.”
“Useful looks good on you,” she says softly.
We cook. The friction of our bodies moving in the small kitchen is electric but safe. I chop the parsley; she grates the pecorino. We are a machine that finally works, the gears oiled and silent.
When we sit down, the candles flicker, casting long shadows against the walls where her paintings hang.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I say, raising my glass.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she echoes.
We eat. The food is warm, rich, alive. We talk about Chan’s new job and how no one has heard from Arthur in a year. We touch on Tabitha’s success at her Chicago firm and the way Elias’s dog, Sally, finally stopped licking guests’ toes—speaking of everything and nothing at all.
When the plates are cleared, I reach under the table and pull out the package. It’s wrapped in simple brown paper, tied with a piece of twine.
Margot stills. The ghost of old gifts, diamond earrings bought by assistants, trips booked by travel agents, hovers for a split second.
“It’s not jewelry,” I promise.
She takes it, her fingers brushing mine. She unties the twine and pulls back the paper.
It’s a book. Handbound. The leather is rough, I stitched it myself, clumsy but durable. Inside, the pages are filled with my handwriting. Sketches of the cabin. Notes on the garden. Observations of her painting in the morning light.
It is a record of the everyday, a log of the moments I used to miss.
“Ross,” she whispers, running a thumb over a sketch of her sleeping.
“I wanted to remember,” I say, my voice thick. “I spent ten years looking at the future. I wanted to write down the present.”
She looks up, her eyes wet. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s just a start,” I say.
She stands and crosses the small distance between us. She climbs into my lap, legs straddling my waist, forehead resting against mine.
“You’re here,” she breathes.
