Safe.
Like something meant to last.
And that thought—that dangerous, hopeful thought—sends a quiet thrill through me.
Because I’m already imagining it.
I’m already picturing me here.
Lazy Sunday afternoons where we make brunch and lounge in the yard together
Hectic weekday mornings where coffee is filled into travel cups and kisses are shared before we jump in our cars and go off to work.
Meal prep and daily dinners we make together.
And nights—oh yes—nights just like this where we couldn’t stop ourselves from coming together any more than we can right now.
I picture a life that somehow includes both of us.
I shouldn’t.
It’s too fast.
Too much.
But I can’t stop it.
Because standing here, wrapped up in him, feeling the way he looks at me like I’m the center of his world?
It doesn’t feel reckless.
It feels right.
Fated. Chosen. Both.
I breathe him in, my hands sliding over him, memorizing, grounding myself in this moment before it slips away.
“Rob,” I whisper, my voice softer now, but steadier than before.
His answer is immediate.
A low rumble.
A promise.
A claim waiting just beneath the surface.
And I lean into it.
Into him.
His strength. His vow.
I lean into us.
Because this time?
I’m not holding back.
