Everything different.
He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, his chin resting on top of her head.
"Are you going to stand in the doorway all night?" he asked.
"I'm just—" She stopped. "Looking."
"At what?"
"At how much can change," she said. "In the same space."
He pressed his lips to her hair. "Come to bed, my love."
She turned in his arms.
They came together slowly, the way people do when they're not running toward something but simply arriving—at the right place, at the right time, having traveled the right distance to deserve it.
He was careful with her. Attentive in a way that felt less like technique and more like genuine interest—watching her face, following her responses, making every moment matter.
She gave him everything she had. Held nothing back.
I love you,she said.
I love you,he said.
Not urgently. Not desperately. The way you say something you know you'll say again tomorrow and the day after.
Easy. True. Permanent.
Afterward, they lay in the dark with the city moving outside their window and the comfortable weight of Bruno across their feet and her head on his chest and his hand in her hair.
"What are you thinking?" she asked.
He was quiet for a moment. "That I'm the luckiest bastard alive."
"You are," she agreed.
He laughed—the sound moving through his chest under her ear. He pressed his lips to the top of her head.
"What about you?" he asked. "What are you thinking?"
She smiled against his chest.
"I'm thinking," she said, "that I have a new book to write."
"About what?"
"A beast who learned to love." She traced a pattern over his heart with her finger. "And the beauty who loved him first."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Our story," he said.
"Our story."
"Make sure it has a happy ending."
She pressed a kiss to his chest. "Ours does."
