Then I’m hit with a strong wave of pride that she felt comfortable enough to go through my things and steal something from me again. Comfortable enough to reach fora piece of my life like she used to, without asking, without hesitation.
The shirt is soft from too many washes, the neckline stretched from all the times I tugged it over her shoulders while she laughed and pretended to be annoyed. The cotton clings to her like it remembers her body. It used to be her favorite. A stupid old band tee from a concert we never even went to together.
She always stole it from my drawer, and I always let her.
Even after the accident, after I pushed her away and convinced myself she deserved better than the broken version of me, I never left that shirt behind. If I’m being honest with myself, I couldn’t, not when it was the only piece of her I let myself keep.
Looking at her in that shirt feels like someone reached inside me and twisted something vital. It knocks the air out of me in a way I am not prepared for, a slow, tearing ache that feels too much like bleeding.
“I see you found the shirt,” I manage, keeping my voice level. “Did you find your crazy socks too?”
She pulls the covers down just enough to bend her knees and lift her legs, feet pointed toward me. “Obviously.”
She is wearing those ridiculous, mismatched, fuzzy thigh-high socks I found on the floor of her rig, somehow left untouched. They’re soft blue, one is scattered with tiny stars, and the other has horizontal stripes. She used to match her socks wrong, and I am thankful for that tonight; I’d have a useless pair of matching socks.
Seeing her wrapped in all these small pieces of our old life does something to me I cannot control. My body reacts before my brain can shut it down, heat punching low and sharp. I grit my teeth and shift under the blanket, praying she does not notice. If she does, she keeps it to herself.
She exhales, a soft, tired sound, and then she rolls onto her side, giving me her back, then slowly inches back toward me.
Not enough to touch me or to make it blatantly obvious. Just enough that her warmth reaches across the thin space between us, a quiet signal I feel in my chest before I feel it anywhere else. It is subtle, intentional, the kind of nearness that says more than words ever could.
Just enough that I know she is asking without asking.
Hold me.
I swallow, my voice low. “Come here.”
Celeste tenses at my command.
I let the words settle between us, softer this time. “If you still need to be held, I’m here for you.”
The room holds its breath with me, the quiet stretching thin and fragile. My pulse hammers my ribs, too loud in the stillness, every instinct I’ve tried to bury clawing its way back up as if it’s been waiting for this exact moment to break free. I brace myself for her to pull away, to shut down, to rebuild the wall she had up earlier when everything felt too sharp and too close.
Instead, she shifts.
It’s a small movement, barely more than a sigh, but it ripples through me like a warning and a promise all at once. She moves slowly, carefully, like she’s afraid the moment might shatter if she pushes too hard. Like she’s testing the air between us, checking if it’s safe to step into the space I’ve kept her away from for months.
Then she rolls onto her other side, facing me now. Her eyes are half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion and something softer, something that hits me straight in the ribs. There’s a vulnerability there that I haven’t seen in a long time, one that makes my breath catch before I can stop it.
She inches closer.
Not all at once. Just a slow, hesitant drift, closing the space between us one breath at a time until her forehead brushes my chest. The touch is feather-light, tentative, like she’s asking a question she’s not sure she’s allowed to voice.
And God help me, I answer it without thinking.
I wrap an arm around her waist and ease her into me, guiding her into the familiar place she always used to sleep. Her head tucks beneath my chin like it remembers the shape of me. Her leg drapes over my hip, warm and trusting. Her fingers settle near the edge of my ribs, curling lightly into my shirt like she’s anchoring herself to something she’s been missing.
And just like that, we’re right back where we used to be.
Where the ache of wanting her feels like a wound that never healed, and she fits against me like she never left at all.
I hold her tighter, pressing my nose into her hair, breathing her in like a man who’s been drowning and finally breaks the surface. The scent of her, the weight of her, the way she melts into me, it all hits at once, overwhelming and devastating.
My heart is a mess of contradictions. My body wants everything. My mind is screaming that this is a terrible idea, that I’m opening a door I won’t be able to close. And my soul… my soul is already unraveling in her hands, helpless and exposed.
What the hell am I doing? Why am I letting myself fall into this? Why am I torturing myself with something I don’t deserve?
Her breath hitches, and she presses closer, like the weight of the world might lift if I just hold her right. That tiny shift undoes me more than anything else tonight.
