Just that brightness before them.
“Stella,” I say, because her name is still the most exact thing in my mouth, “I love the version of my life that happens with you in it.”
That does it.
Her breath catches.
I feel the tremor move through her before I see it.
Not because she doubts me.
Because she understands exactly what I mean.
Not fantasy.
Not heat.
Not just the violent, beautiful chemistry of us.
Life.
Ordinary mornings.
Bad moods.
Travel.
Recovery.
Laundry.
Food in the fridge.
Her tapes and training bands all over the bathroom counter.
My shoes by the door.
Her moving through the rooms I come home to.
The way she climbs into my lap after a bad day and acts like she’s doing me a favor.
The way she makes every version of the future stop looking like strategy and start looking like something worth wanting. The way she didn’t even blink when I got drafted by the Miami Heat. She just said,“I can train on the beach.”
She slides both hands up into my hair. Like she’s been denying herself that all night and can’t anymore.
Her fingers close at the back of my head.
“I love your life too,” she whispers. “The one with me in it.”
I kiss her then.
Slowly.
No rush.
No audience.
Just my mouth on hers under Greek stars with her medal pressing cool between us and the sea below us and the whole world finally, for once, not asking me to split myself in two.
