When we finally came together, it was not perfect.
I had imagined perfect.
A thousand times.
In exile. In guilt. In a hospital bed with shame burning under my skin. In half-sleep after surgery when her voice still echoed in the dark.
But real was better.
Real was her breath catching against my neck. My hand gripping the sheet when emotion hit harder than desire. Her whispering my name like she was surprised we had survived long enough to say it this way. Me stopping because my sidepulled and her laughing softly through tears because of course our first time involved medical caution and stubbornness.
Real was us.
Messy.
Careful.
Hungry.
Tender.
Alive.
I kissed her through every breath I could. Her mouth, her cheek, the corner of her eye where tears slipped free, her wrist where the cuff rested warm against her skin. She held my face between both hands when the feeling rose too high and kept me there, looking at her.
“Stay with me,” she whispered.
I knew she did not mean the house.
Or the bed.
Or even the night.
“I’m here,” I said.
Then quieter, because the truth deserved no performance, “I’m not leaving again.”
Her eyes shone.
This time, when she kissed me, there was no grief in it.
No goodbye.
Only yes.
Afterward, the room was almost dark.
The last light had gone violet at the windows. Somewhere downstairs, the house creaked softly, settling around us like it had been waiting for this too.
Destiny lay against me, one leg tangled carefully with mine, her fingers tracing absent shapes over my chest. I had one hand in her hair because now that I had permission, I was not sure I would ever stop touching it.
Her cheek rested near my heart.
For a long time, neither of us spoke.
Words would have made it smaller.
Eventually, she lifted her head. “You built me a house.”
