And every time it happens, I feel it —
That old current.
That old pull.
Like gravity.
Like if I stop paying attention, I’ll slide right back into her.
At night we sit by the fire.
I play guitar.
Same chords. Same songs.
She curls up on the couch with her feet tucked under her.
Listening.
Just listening.
No performance.
No seduction.
No “look how good I am now.”
Just quiet.
Sometimes I catch her watching me like she’s memorizing something she’s afraid of losing.
That look almost undoes me.
Almost.
The first time she stays over again, it’s colder than I expect.
She brushes her teeth in my bathroom like it’s muscle memory.
Folds her clothes neatly on the chair.
Slips under the covers like she’s done it a hundred times.
Like nothing ever happened.
Like we didn’t burn the whole thing down.
I stand there in the doorway.
Heart thudding.
Because this is it.
This is the moment.
This is where old Ethan would crawl into bed, wrap himself around her, pretend the last year never happened.
Pretend love fixes everything.
