It’s the kind of kiss that melts arguments and turns logic into steam.
The kind of kiss that says you’re mine, and I take care of what’s mine.
And maybe I should push back harder.
But I don’t know how. And I don’t really want to.
Thatcher seems to enjoy giving, and I can’t help but take.
Maybe I’m greedy.
Maybe I’m just unsure how healthy relationships work.
But I try to give back.
I insist we split chores, though he argues.
And since I love to do it, I cook. Every night.
He helps, and he’s hopeless at it, but I love it when he tries.
We talk. We laugh.
And somewhere between those easy conversations and shared meals, I start to feel like I can be myself again.
No eggshells.
No editing who I am to make someone else more comfortable.
No apologizing for existing.
It’s all justblissfully normal.
Which feels revolutionary.
At night, when we’re in bed, I give Thatcher pieces of myself I didn’t know I still had.
Little things.
Quiet things.
Scars I’ve been hiding under polite smiles and lowered eyes.
I let him touch my body like it’s something sacred, not a problem to be solved or a chore to get through.
And he looks at me like he sees me, with all my human flaws, and he still wants me.
He looks at me like I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
If he feels even one fraction of what he makes me feel, then I’ve done something right in this life.
I bite my lip, fingers pausing over the keyboard as I glance down at my desk.
Work is hectic—chaotic, even.
The snow won’t quit, which means deliveries are delayed, repairs are piling up, and half the crew spends their day just trying to keep the paths clear.
But you know what?
