The kitchen does a funny thing where it goes very still without feeling tense.
Geoff doesn’t speak straight away. He doesn’t joke. He doesn’t deflect. He just looks at me, really looks, like he’s listening with his whole body.
“I wasn’t sure at first,” I continue, words tumbling now that I’ve started. “Because it doesn’t feel like it did before. There’s no lightning strike or panic or that slightly unhinged need to impress someone who hasn’t earned it yet. And that made me think maybe it wasn’t love at all.”
I let out a quiet, self-conscious laugh.
“But then it hit me. This feels… stronger. Calmer. Like it’s settled into my bones instead of my stomach. And now I’m wondering if maybe all thoseothertimes weren’t love at all. Maybe they were just lust. Or habit. Or wanting to want something.”
I look down at my hands. At the gentle curve beneath them.
“And this,” I add softly, “feels different enough to scare me.”
Geoff pushes off the counter.
He doesn’t rush. He steps closer, slow and deliberate, until he’s standing between my knees. He rests his hands on my thighs, warm and grounding.
“Christa,” he says quietly.
I look up.
“I’ve been in lust,” he says. “A lot. Enthusiastically. With commitment issues and questionable judgement.”
I snort despite myself.
“But this,” he continues, voice steady, “has never felt like that. It feels like waking up in the right place. I don’t need to perform or chase or prove anything. I just get to be here.”
My throat tightens.
“I love you,” he says. No hesitation. No flourish. Just truth.
He lifts one hand and presses it over mine on my stomach. The other cups my cheek, thumb brushing lightly like he’s memorising the shape of me.
“And if this is slower and quieter than before,” he adds, “I think that’s because it’s real. Lust shouts. Love stays.”
I blink rapidly, annoyed at my eyes for doing that watery thing.
“Well,” I say, voice wobbling despite my best efforts, “that’s inconveniently perfect.”
He smiles. Soft. Certain.
“Chicken’s probably ready,” he says.
I laugh, leaning into his touch.
“Well, that tracks,” I reply. “Because my life now includes emotional revelations, with perfectly cooked poultry on the side.”
He kisses my forehead, lingering.
And, for once, nothing in me wonders if this will disappear.
It doesn’t feel like a spark.
It feels like a home.
37
Rainbow Unicorn
