The kind of night that feels like a sigh.Like everything’s slowing down just enough for you to notice how alive it all is.
Sawyer’s in the kitchen, packing up for his Arizona run.
He moves through the house like a quiet storm—focused, deliberate, every motion efficient and practiced.
Boots scuffing against the hardwood, the low thud of the cooler lid, the rustle of a worn duffel as he folds shirts with military precision.
There’s a rhythm to it.
Load.Zip.Check.
Move.Breathe.Repeat.
Angie’s left him sandwiches, a tin of cookies, and a thermos of coffee.
There are soft drinks in the cooler, a couple bags of chips—everything neat, labeled, and ready to go.
He doesn’t say a word as he works, but I can feel it in the air.
The tension.
The reluctance.
The part of him that doesn’t want to leave me here, even for a few days.
And I get it.
Because I don’t want him to go either.
Which is exactly why I decide now is the time to tell him—no, show him—that I’m not going anywhere.
I’m here.
For real.
For however long he’ll have me.
God, I love this man.
It’s wild how easily those words fit inside my head now.
Love.Him.
Trying to picture my life without him?Shit.I can’t even do it.
The funny—or maybe tragic—thing is, I know my pattern.I’m what my mother likes to call a“self-destructive personality type.”
I have this uncanny ability to set myself up for heartbreak and failure like it’s my full-time job.
I mean, the evidence is all there:
Catholic High School—got kicked out of for cursing at my teacher after she low-balled me on a grade.
Cheerleading—quit after two months because the skirts were itchy.
College—flunked out halfway through my junior year because I couldn’t pick a major.
Boyfriends—don’t even get me started.
