He saw me watching him.
He did not smile, but something in his face changed. Something softened. Something opened up—the part of him that usually stayed behind all the walls.
He set both mugs down on the nightstand—careful, steady, like they were precious—and he came around to my side of the bed. He sat down on the edge like he was going to get up again, like he was not sure if this was allowed, even after everything. Even after the yes. Even after the ring.
I sat up enough to take the coffee from his hands.
I said, “You don’t have to bring me coffee in the morning. You don’t have to wait on me.”
He said, “I know.”
I said, “But you’re going to anyway.”
He said, “Yes.”
I set the coffee down and I pulled him back onto the bed with me, and he came without resisting. He never resisted. That was the thing about Knox—he pretended to be unmovable, all ice and stone and control, but when I touched him he became soft. Became mine. The contradiction of him—the hardness outside and the tenderness inside—was the thing that had made me understand what love actually was.
He pulled me against him so that I was tucked against his side, my head on his chest, my hand on his abdomen. I could feel his heart under my cheek. Steady. Not racing. Calm. He was calm in the mornings. He saved his intensity for the ice.
He said, “How do you feel.”
Not a question really. A statement with the question mark at the end.
I said, “Like I’m going to cry.”
He said, “Are you happy-crying or sad-crying.”
I said, “I’m not sure yet. I need more data.”
He did something that might have been a laugh if Knox laughed, which he did not—which was just a slight shake under my cheek, a tremor in his chest, the physical manifestation of something he did not know how to say out loud.
He said, “The data is this: you are in my bed. You have a ring on your finger. You are going to marry me. We have spent the last three months learning how to be honest with each other. You just passed a health inspection. The diner is safe. You are safe. Your grandmother would be proud of you.”
I said, “Stop making me cry.”
He said, “Cry. It’s fine.”
I said, “You say that. But you don’t like it when I’m sad.”
He said, “I like it when you let yourself feel things. Even if they’re hard. Especially if they’re hard. I like knowing what you’re actually feeling instead of just guessing.”
I cried then—just a little bit, just the way you cry when everything is exactly right and you are terrified of losing it. My face was wet and his thermal shirt was getting damp and he did not move away. He just held me while I fell apart in the small way that I was falling apart. His hand found the back of my head and he held me like I might break if he let go.
After a while, my breathing steadied. I wiped my face on the back of my hand.
I said, “I’m ready to stop being sad now.”
He said, “Okay.”
I said, “Kiss me.”
He did.
It was gentle—not rushed, not urgent. Just his lips on mine like we had all the time in the world. Like this was not the one thing that had kept him coming back to the diner every morning for three months. Like this was not the reason he had rented the apartment above my garage. Like this was just a regular Tuesday morning and he was kissing me like it was easy.
It was not easy. It was the hardest thing I had ever done—let someone this close to me. Let someone know me. Let someone see all of the broken places and decide to stay anyway.
He pulled back just enough to look at me.
