Morning coffee together. Sometimes silent, sometimes not. His hand on my lower back when he passes behind me in the kitchen, as if it belongs there. The way he always kisses my forehead before he leaves, even when he’s already late, even when he thinks I’m half-asleep. Especially when he thinks I am asleep.
I love listening to how he speaks to me when he thinks I am asleep. Many times, I had wanted to move or say something, reassure him. But I don't think he is ready for that. It's like the only time he feels safe enough to voice his truth is in the dark, by my side, whispering to me, thinking only he can hear.
Little things that add up over time, not one giant excessive show of love.
I can honestly say I have met two very different Julians. The man I originally met. The man who proposed a marriage like a transaction.
That person signed a document that had such a profound impact on both of our lives, leaving me feeling hollow and cold.
Then there is the after Julian. The Julian who showed up. and continues to show up. Who isnt loud with the way he cares, but he does care. It's just in private, in the quiet. It's no less profound or meaningful. If anything, it feels more so, because it's not for show... It's only for me.
The first time I bring up birth control, it’s awkward and honest.
We’re in bed, tangled together, the aftermath warm and slow and safe. I’m tracing idle patterns on his skin when the thought hits me, sharp and practical and very me.
“Julian?”
“Mm?”
“We should… talk about birth control.”
He stills.
Not in a bad way. Just attentive. Present.
“I should have brought it up sooner,” I add quickly. “I just... things moved fast, and I didn’t want to assume... and you didn't use a condom... and I didn't ask you to... and...”
“You don’t have to justify it,” he says gently, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at me. “What do you need?”
The question is weighted but it also means so much to me. Because I don't know anyone else who has asked me that, who has held me and looked at me like he is in this moment, and I know he wants to know. I know what the contract says, but in this moment, he is looking at me like I hold all the cards.
Notwhat do you want.
Notwhat’s easiest.
Notwell contract timeline states...
What do you need?
I swallow. “I don’t want to get pregnant, not yet.” I swallow, trying to interpret his stormy eyes. "I know it is part of the agreement..." I am absolutely blabbering at this point, "and I want kids... I do. But with mom and work... and us being so new... and this being so nice... "
“Okay,” he interrupts me. “We’ll make sure you’re protected.”
No hesitation. No disappointment.
"I am already on the shot, I just had one not long ago, so I will need to go back in 10 weeks."
We talk through options like adults who respect each other. There’s no pressure. No assumption that my body is a means to something other than mine. We talk about how long it typically takes for the shot to wear off, and we plan to talk again before my next shot to see where we are.
Later, when he pulls me back against him, warm and solid and steady, he presses a kiss to my temple and murmurs, “Thank you for trusting me with that.”
I lie awake long after he falls asleep, stunned by how much that sentence undoes me.
Christmas comes quietly. Mom is still at the facility and hasn't been cleared to leave. So that is where we celebrate this year.
The treatment facility smells like pine and antiseptic and something faintly sweet. They’ve tried to make it festive. Paper snowflakes taped to windows. A small tree in the common area is decorated with mismatched ornaments donated by staff. Julian tells me he needs to make a call and will meet me in moms’ room, before we make it through the main area of the facility.
Mom looks tired. Better than before, but notbetter. The doctors keep telling me to be patient. That progress isn’t linear. That her body needs time to adjust. That this is what it's like to be a part of a trial.
