More than I should.
More than I’m willing to admit out loud.
I like her taking care of me.
Like knowing she still wants to.
That she still looks at me like I’m worth something.
My throat tightens as I watch her—hair damp, cheeks flushed, eyes still a little glassy—and something shifts in my chest.
Hope.
Yeah. There it is. That dangerous, stubborn thing again.
Maybe I didn’t fuck this up beyond repair.
Maybe I didn’t lose her completely.
Because if she was really done with me?
If she really hated me?
She wouldn’t be here.
Wouldn’t be touching me.
Wouldn’t be looking at me like that.
I step closer again, slower this time.
Careful.
Like I’m approaching something fragile instead of the wildfire I know she can be.
My hand finds her hip, grounding myself as much as her.
“You okay?” I ask, voice lower now.
Rougher. Less controlled.
She nods.
And that nod?
It settles something in me.
Not everything.
Not even close.
But enough.
Enough to believe this might not be over.
That we might not be done.
That maybe—just maybe—she still loves me the way I never stopped loving her.
