Our skin still warm, still sticky from everything we just shared.
Her fingers are tracing small shapes along my ribs, like she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
God, I love this.
Her.
Being inside her is everything—but this?
This quiet after? This peace?
This is what matters.
I picture the future. My future.Hers.
Us. Together. Here.
Maybe we can have that.
Maybe we can make a family together.
But I don’t know how she feels about any of that.
So then ask her, a voice tells me.
“Willow?”
“Hmm?”
“Where do you see yourself in the future?”
“The future? I don’t know. I never, I mean, w-what do you want your future to be like?” she counters.
Nerves make my chest feel tight.
But I tell her.
“Family.”
“Family?”
“Yeah. You know, I used to think,” I murmur, running my fingers down her back, “that the only kind of normal family was the loud kind. Swore I’d die an old hermit on this mountain.”
She shifts a little, making a soft humming noise like she’s listening.
“Did you? Why?”
“Well, my family is just so loud. You know the type,” I say. “Annoying older sister yelling from the stands at your baseball games. Not ‘cause she’s cheering for you—nah, she’s eyeing the assistant coach ‘cause he’s the head coach’s kid. Swiping your Gatorade, telling your friends embarrassing shit about how you cried over the family dog.”
I chuckle, and the sound rumbles in my chest beneath her cheek.
“Kelly?” Willow whispers, soft like she’s tucking the name away.
“Yup. Pain in my ass,” I grin, eyes closed, arm wrapped tight around her.
She laughs—barely—but it’s there.
“What happened with the assistant coach?”
