This feels right.
That’s the dangerous thought.
Not the sex. Not the kitchen. This. Her breathing evening out against my chest. The way my thumb rests at her shoulder like it’s always lived there. The fact that I don’t feel the urge to run or joke or fill the space with noise.
Eventually she shifts, just slightly.
“Can I ask you something?” she says quietly.
“Always.”
She hesitates. I can practically hear her choosing her words.
“Was there… anything,” she asks carefully, “stirring?”
I huff out a laugh before I can stop myself. Honest feels safer than dramatic.
“No,” I say. “Dick was fully unmoved. Completely uninterested in the entire evening.”
She sighs, exaggerated and theatrical. “Shame. I was hoping I might be the miracle cure.”
I glance down at her. She’s smiling into my chest.
“Sorry to disappoint.”
She snorts. “I’d already mentally pencilled myself in as your new treatment plan. Very dedicated. Regular sessions. Possibly a loyalty card.”
“Ten visits and the eleventh one’s free.”
“Exactly.”
I shake my head, laughing quietly into the dark. “I appreciate the commitment.”
She shifts closer, if that’s even possible. “Well. Worth a try.”
“Absolutely,” I say. “Strong effort.”
We lie there, grinning, the humour easing something loose between us. No pressure. No disappointment. Just warmth and shared ridiculousness.
Her hand settles on my chest. Still. Easy.
“I’m glad you asked,” I add after a moment.
“Why?”
“Because this,” I say, meaning all of it, “was never about fixing anything.”
She hums softly, already drifting.
“Good,” she murmurs. “Because I quite liked it exactly as it was.”
So did I.
I hold her while sleep takes her properly this time, the weight of her steady and grounding, and let myself think the dangerous thought again.
This feels right.
And, for once, I don’t immediately try to talk myself out of it.
