It continues in the hallway, when he reaches for my hand without thinking.
And it finally catches up to us in the bedroom, when the house is quiet and Emmy is asleep and the world feels—maybe for the first time—far away.
Saint closes the door softly behind us.
Not like he’s sealing us in.
Like he’s keeping the noise out.
He stands there for a second, like he’s not sure what comes next.
I step into him.
Put my hands on his chest.
Feel his heart.
Still strong. Still steady. Still here.
“You don’t have to be careful with me,” I whisper.
His jaw tightens.
“I don’t know how not to be.”
I slide my hands up his neck and kiss him.
Not urgent.
Not desperate.
Just… sure.
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
His hands come to my waist. Hesitant at first. Then firmer.
Like he’s remembering something he almost forgot.
We don’t rush.
We don’t need to.
This isn’t about hunger.
It’s abouthome.
He rests his forehead against mine.
“I thought if I stopped moving, everything would catch up to me,” he says quietly.
“It did,” I say. “And you’re still standing.”
He looks at me like I’m something fragile and unbreakable at the same time.
“I don’t want to lose this,” he says.
“You won’t,” I tell him. “We’re not surviving anymore. We’re living.”
