The room was dim. A lamp on her nightstand cast a soft amber glow that barely reached the walls. Outside, the city hummed its usual late-night rhythm, but in here it felt sealed off. Quiet. Safe.
Just us.
“You’re staring,” she murmured without lifting her head.
“I’m not,” I said.
She smiled against my chest. “You always get real still when you’re staring.”
I exhaled, fingers continuing their slow path along her spine. “Just… taking a minute.”
“To do what?”
“To not be anywhere else.”
That made her lift her head.
Her eyes searched my face—not playfully, not teasing. Really looking. Like she was measuring the truth of what I’d said.
“I like having you here,” she admitted. “After everything. After all the years we spent orbiting each other, missing each other, or getting it wrong… this feels different.”
“It is different.”
“How?”
I thought about that before answering. About fires. About walking into structures not knowing what would give way. About how most of my life had been built around staying ready to lose.
“This time,” I said slowly, “I’m not waiting for it to fall apart.”
She studied me a second longer, then let her fingers drift over the scar on my shoulder. The one she always touched like she was smoothing it out of existence.
“You used to keep me in the distance” she said. “Even when you swore you weren’t.”
“Yeah.”
“And now?”
I slid my hand up her back, settling it between her shoulder blades, holding her there.
“Now I’m tired of shutting you out.”
The words sat between us. Heavy, but not frightening. Just honest.
She rested her chin on my chest again, quieter this time. Thoughtful.
“I caught myself earlier,” she said. “When you went to rinse those glasses… I was listening for you. Like—really listening. The way you do when someone lives with you.”
I huffed a soft laugh. “That’s a dangerous habit.”
“I know.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
Then she said, almost casually, “Have you ever thought about trying it again?”
I didn’t pretend not to understand what she meant.
Living together.
