By the time the sun started creeping through the curtains, we were tangled together under the quilt, slick with sweat and completely spent.
Wyatt's arm was slung across my waist, his face buried in my neck, and I could feel his heartbeat against my back, steady and strong.
"You should stay for breakfast," I murmured, my voice rough from overuse.
Wyatt's lips brushed the curve of my shoulder. "Are you cooking?"
"I was thinking you could cook."
He laughed, low and warm against my skin. "Fair enough. I wore you out, the least I can do is feed you."
I smiled into the pillow, feeling lighter than I had in months. Maybe years.
This, lying here with him, knowing I'd chosen it freely, knowing I could choose it again or not choose it, and either way I'd still be whole, this felt like coming home to myself.
"Wyatt," I said quietly.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
He stilled behind me. "For what?"
"For waiting. For not pushing. For letting me come to you when I was ready."
Wyatt's arm tightened around me, pulling me closer. "You don't have to thank me for that."
"I know," I said. "But I'm going to anyway."
He was quiet for a moment, his breath warm against my neck. Then, soft enough, I almost missed it, "I love you."
My heart stuttered.
It wasn't the first time he said it. He told me two weeks ago, standing in my apartment with my whole life in chaos around me. But hearing it now, in the aftermath of this, of choosing him, of choosing us, of choosing myself first and then him second, it landed differently.
It landed true.
I turned in his arms until I was facing him, my hand coming up to cup his jaw.
"I know," I whispered. "And I'm getting there."
Wyatt's eyes softened. "That's all I need."
I kissed him, slow and sweet and unhurried, and for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be truly wanted. To be loved without being diminished.
To be my own person and his but still completely whole.
When we finally dragged ourselves out of bed, Wyatt pulled on his jeans and wandered into my kitchen shirtless, rummaging through my fridge like he belonged here.
I watched him from the doorway, wearing nothing but his shirt from last night and a pair of underwear, my hair a disaster, and my body pleasantly sore in all the right places.
"You have eggs," he called over his shoulder. "And bacon. I can work with this."
"There's coffee too," I said, moving to the counter and starting the pot.
Wyatt glanced at me, his gaze tracking over the shirt I was wearing, and something heated in his expression. "You look good in my clothes."
"I look good in everything," I shot back, grinning.
