We stayed like that for a long while, wrapped up in each other, the warm water and candlelight cocooning us from the rest of the world. His hands traced lazy patterns on my arms, my shoulders, never demanding—just touching. Reconnecting. Remembering.
“I love you,” I said quietly. “I don’t think I say it enough.”
“You say it plenty.”
“Not enough. Not for everything you’ve done. Everything you’ve been.” I twisted to face him, water rippling around us. “You carried me through all of it, Michael. You never let go.”
His eyes glistened in the candlelight. “I couldn’t. You’re my whole heart, Claudette. Letting go was never an option.”
I kissed him then—soft and slow, pouring everything I couldn’t say into the press of my lips against his. He kissed me back the same way, tender and unhurried, like we had forever.
And maybe we did.
When the kiss deepened, it felt natural. Inevitable. His hands cradled my face, and mine wound around his neck, and the space between us disappeared entirely.
“I missed you,” he breathed against my mouth. “I missed this. Missed being close to you.”
“I’m close now.”
“Not close enough.” He pulled back just enough to look at me, his gaze searching mine. “Is this okay? Are you?—”
“I’m perfect.” I traced my thumb along his jaw. “I want this. I want you.”
He smiled—that soft, wondering smile that always made my heart flip—and pulled me closer.
The rest of the world simply fell away.
There was only us, only this—the warm water and scattered petals, the candlelight painting gold across our skin, the music wrapping around us like a blanket. He touched me like I was precious, and I held him like he was home.
We moved together slowly, gently, relearning each other in the quiet. When he whispered my name, it sounded like a prayer. When I whispered his, it felt like a promise.
Afterward, we stayed tangled together in the cooling water, neither of us willing to break the spell.
“We should get out,” I murmured against his shoulder.
“Probably.” He pressed a kiss to my damp hair. “In a minute.”
“You said that ten minutes ago.”
“And I’ll say it again in another ten.”
I laughed softly, and felt him smile against my temple.
When we finally made it to bed—wrapped in soft towels, skin still warm—I curled into his side and listened to his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Alive.
“Thank you,” I said quietly. “For the house. For the photos. For carrying that letter around for months.” I propped my chin on his chest to look at him. “For never giving up on me.”
He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his expression unbearably tender. “I couldn’t give up on you. You’re everything, Claudette. You’re my whole life.”
“You’re mine too.”
He kissed me, slow and sweet, and pulled me closer.
On the nightstand, the letter sat beside Failure the elephant—both of them testaments to persistence, to refusing to quit, to winning anyway.
A thousand ordinary days, Michael had written.
We’d already started counting.
