Her breathing is slow and even beside me. One delicate arm is tucked under the pillow, her hair is spread across my sheets in a dark, tangled spill.
I still can’t believe this incredible woman sleeps next to me in my bed. Morning light slips through the blinds and catches on the curve of her shoulder. I watch long enough for my heart to ache.
One week.
Seven days since she kissed me, pulled me under, and changed every part of how my body works.
I used to wake up thinking about code, deadlines, meetings, fixing bugs.
Now it’s skin on skin with the woman of my dreams. The scent of sex and warmth and the memory of all the things she’s teaching me.
My whole system runs on Hope Kristiansen. One look at her mouth and I’m done for. One laugh from the kitchen and my pulse jumps. We’ve spent most of this week inside my apartment naked, pursuing a private rhythm I barely understand and have no interest in escaping.
I’m desperately in love with her.
There’s no use in pretending I can keep perspective. Even before she took me inside her body, I crossed some line and never came back.
She stirs, eyes opening halfway. “You’re staring.”
“Probably.” I trace her nipple and it tightens immediately.
Hope glances at my finger circling her little nub. “You’re obsessed with fucking me.”
“No argument.”
Her mouth curves. She slides closer, presses her face into my chest for a second. Lies there as if this is our new normal. I rest my hand on her back and let myself have ten more seconds before the day starts asking anything of either of us.
She’s getting stronger. I see it in how she stands up without pausing first. She argues with her doctors now instead of nodding and doing whatever they say. Her balance is back. The only overt physical evidence is when her headaches hit hard enough to stop her cold and bright light still bothers her.
It’s enough though. She isn’t cleared to work and it’s stressing her out.
I hate parts of it too, for different reasons.
The thing is, I want her to get well. I want her playing, laughing again, moving through the world without calculatinghow much motion or noise or light will cost her later. Or, stressing about money. Worrying about attackers.
I also know the minute she gets cleared, this strange little life we’ve built inside my apartment starts to dissolve. She’ll find another apartment. Her routines will stop including me. My evenings stop ending with her feet in my lap while I read to her.
I’ll go back to sleeping alone.
I’m thinking too much. So much, in fact, I’ve started acting weird.
Not openly weird, hopefully. Subtle weird.
I can’t seem to stop asking if she needs anything. Every ten minutes. Or offering to drive her places she doesn’t need to go. I catch myself lingering in doorways observing her and pretending I wasn’t.
She notices. How could she not?
By noon I’ve answered twenty-five emails, ignored twelve, and Hope’s made breakfast late enough to count as lunch. She picks at toast, abandons it for strawberries. My mom dropped them off yesterday, along with bags of groceries and three containers of different homemade soup.
When she finishes, Hope returns to the couch and picks up her doctor’s notes to study them.
I carry our dishes to the sink and stand there longer than I need to. In the reflection off the window above it, I can see her without turning around. Bare legs tucked under one of my old T-shirts. Hair in a loose knot. She rubs her temple once and closes her eyes.
“No live performance. No bartending. Reevaluate in two weeks,” she recites the recommendation as if saying it out loud might change it, voice flat with disgust. “I’m gonna lose my mind.”
“You’re not.”
She lifts a brow. “Bold claim.”
