This is not casual. This is not detached. Letting me stay over means something to Perry.
Doesn’t it?
It means something to me.
If Amber discovers I’m still seeing Perry, she will not handle it with restraint. Amber’s relationship with Meron complicates it further. My department head is my ex-wife’s fiancé. My former best friend. A man who would enjoy watching me stumble.
Professionally, this is unwise. Socially, it’s reckless. Family-wise, it’s combustible. And yet…here I am.
I turn my head. Perry is sprawled across her side of the bed, clothes discarded somewhere on the floor, hair a dark riot across the pillow. One arm is tucked beneath her head. The other hangs loosely off the mattress.
She’s snoring. Full, unapologetic, unfiltered sound. And instead of diminishing her, it disarms me completely. I did that to her. I knocked her out.
My pride and other parts of me swell at the thought. I consider waking her. The thought is immediate. Physical. I remember how she felt beneath my hands. The way she looked at me like I was something extraordinary.
I shift slightly. She snores again, louder. I bite back a laugh.
No. Let her sleep.
I slide carefully from the bed and gather my clothes from the floor. The air is cool against my skin. I button my shirt and pause at the edge of the mattress, looking down at her.
This situation is detrimental to my life in nearly every measurable way. But I have not felt this awake in years.
I leave the bedroom quietly. Her apartment is smaller than mine, but it feels fuller. Not crowded. Just lived-in.
I move slowly through the living room, conscious that I’m walking through the center of her life without invitation to examine it. Two bassinets sit near the couch, positioned with precision. A green folded blanket rests on the arm of the sofa.
In the kitchen, I make coffee as quietly as I can. A bottle warmer occupies the counter. A handwritten note is taped to the refrigerator—feeding times. Diaper counts. Reminders in tight, disciplined script.
Perry may appear impulsive, but she’s not. At least, not in everything.
I’m not surprised she stays so organized. She’s doing this on her own. The early days of parenthood are brutal. I can’t imagine handling them alone.
I remember the smell of formula lingering in our first house. The sound of Jason’s cry piercing through walls at three in the morning. The way Amber and I rotated exhaustion like a shift schedule. I remember standing in the nursery and thinking:This is where it begins.
Back then, I believed that consistency would be enough. That love, properly applied, could shape trajectory. That if I loved them both enough, everything would turn out the way that it should.
Maybe that’s the lie every parent tells themselves. Or maybe it’s just me. I was wrong. Jason did not turn out the way I imagined. That thought sits heavier than it should this early in the morning. The weight of it stands on my chest.
Coffee. I need coffee.
I straighten and step back into the kitchen, pouring coffee with a steadier hand than I feel. The apartment reflects something I haven’t seen in a long time—a fresh start. Funny how that sounds like the most appealing thing in the world, first thing in the morning.
Unopened boxes are stacked neatly in one corner. A baby monitor sits charging beside the couch. A stack of parenting books lies half-read on the table, margins marked with small sticky flags.
She’s educating herself on being a good parent. Making an effort to do the best she can. I know plenty of people who just wing it, letting a team of therapists, nannies, tutors, and grandparents do the heavy lifting of child rearing.
But Perry’s here, doing it on her own, and legitimately trying to do her absolute best. That shifts something in me.
It’s one thing to be attracted to someone’s body or personality. It’s another to actually respect who they are as a person. She’s managed to hit every mark so far.
I take my coffee to the window and stand there for a long moment, watching early light gather over Snow Valley’s quiet streets.
This situation is dangerous.
I am not accustomed to wanting something. My life, as challenging as certain aspects are, is rather gilded. I’m aware of my privilege. I’ve had things relatively easy. Most of the time, I flash a smile or a black card, and a woman is happy to be on my arm.
With Perry, everything is different. She’s unlike anyone I have ever dated, and I don’t know how to make this work. But I want to. It’s been a very long time since I’ve wanted for anything. And I don’t know how reckless that might make me.
