Maybe it’s happening right now, I’m getting burned again—I’ll be alone again.
Maybe he’s going to leave and this is the softest goodbye he knows how to give.
Maybe Abby —
• • •
He grabs my face with both hands.
Gentle. Firm.
“I’m shaking them out,” he says. “Whatever’s in there. I can see them.”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
He keeps his hands where they are.
His eyes on mine.
Serious in the specific way that means he’s about to say something that costs him.
“You love so easily,” he says. “You always have. Because you grew up with it everywhere. Your mom, your dad, this house. You were so full of it you didn’t even know how special that was.”
• • •
I don’t say anything.
“Things with my mom were —” He stops. Jaw moving. Choosing words carefully. “Complicated. And things with my dad are still hard. In ways I —”
He doesn’t finish that sentence.
The door.
That goddamn door.
“So it’s hard for me to say this,” he continues. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever said it. To anyone. Not once.”
He exhales.
“Of course I love you, Ro.”
Of course.
Like it was never a question.
Like it was always the answer and he just needed to find his way to it.
I kiss him soft and slow.
Full of everything I don’t have words for.
Full of rooftops and sirens and open windows and blue daisies and every night I fell asleep wanting exactly this.
Full of regret that it took this long.
Full of gratitude that we got here anyway.
