After dinner, I curl up on the couch while he builds a fire. The room fills with the scent of cedar and something bright, like oranges. I watch the flames flicker on his face.
He looks younger now, like someone standing in his own life for the first time. He turns, brushes my hair behind my ear. His fingers linger at my neck, tracing slow, reassuring lines.
“I want to say something.”
I shift to look at him, bracing.
“I love you,” he says. “Not because you needed saving. Not because I did. But because you make me feel like my own life matters.”
My eyes sting. “I love you, too,” I say, and the truth of it is so clear I have to blink back tears.
He kisses me, slow at first, his hand gentle on my cheek. The spark is still there, but it’s different now, softer, not desperate. I let myself relax into it, feeling every careful touch, every bit of heat.
He pulls back, searching my face.
“Is this okay?” he asks. “I never want to take anything from you.”
“It’s more than okay,” I say, climbing into his lap.
We take our time, learning each other all over again. I trace the line of his jaw with my thumb, memorizing the scratch of stubble and the warmth underneath. His hands are big, rough, but every touch is measured, as if he’s afraid I might evaporate.
He holds my hand and leads me toward the bedroom; the fire’s glow trails after us like a blessing. I peel off my t-shirt, drop it to the floor, and watch as his eyes move over my body, reverent. He kisses the fading bruises on my ribs, my shoulder, then tilts my chin to meet his mouth.
I slide my hands under his shirt, tugging it up, wanting to feel every inch of him. His skin is warm, the hair on his chest softer than I expect. I push him back on the bed, straddle his hips, and for a second we just look at each other.
He brushes his knuckles down my arm. “You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, the awe in his voice undoes me.
I lean down, kiss him deeply, passionately, and rock my hips against his until he moans. We undress each other slowly, every piece of clothing peels a layer of the past away.
He makes love to me like it’s both the first and last time. He's slow, attentive, letting me set the pace. When he finally pushes inside, I gasp, not from pain but from the shock of feeling so open. He holds me, moves gently, his eyes locked on mine.
I come quickly, shaking with the force of it, and he follows, burying his face in my neck. We stay like that for a long time, tangled and still, the only sounds the storm and our breathing.
“I want this,” I whisper. “Every day. No more running.”
He kisses the top of my head. “It’s yours.”
He reaches into the drawer by the bed and pulls out a little box, velvet and cheap, the kind you get at a strip mall jeweler. His hand shakes as he flips it open.
“I know this is fast,” he says, voice cracking. “And I know we have a thousand things to figure out. But I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.”
He waits, silent, while I stare at the ring. My heart is a trapped bird in my chest.
“You don’t have to say yes. I just need you to know I want this. Us.”
I take the ring from the box and slide it on my finger. It fits. Of course it fits.
I start to cry, and for once, it’s not because something broke.
I launch myself at him, tackling him onto the bed, covering his face with kisses.
“Yes,” I say, over and over, until he’s laughing and I’m breathless.
He holds me, and I know, with absolute certainty, that I am safe.
Saved.
EPILOGUE: MICHAEL: 1 YEAR LATER
