In the back of my mind, a tiny voice cuts through everything else:This won’t last.
Which is why I don’t say anything.
Not,Don’t go.Not,Stay.Not,I feel as if I’m coming undone in your arms and it terrifies me.
I keep swaying.
Because some things only live in the moment.
And this?
This feels like one of those things.
Morning slips in – soft and tentative, the light filtering through gauzy curtains like it does in sad indie movies where people whisper apologies in doorways and make bad decisions while wearing over-sized sweaters.
The storm’s gone and everything smells rinsed – wet paperbarks, damp earth, the faint citrus scent of Luke’s soap.I’m standing barefoot in the kitchen, yawning, hair tangled.
The coffee machine rumbles.I pour coffee into two mismatched mugs and sit at the old wooden table, waiting for him.My stomachis doing that low whir it does when I know something’s coming and wish it wasn’t.
Outside, the world stretches wide and golden.A cockatoo screeches in a nearby tree, the kelpies bark in their shelter, and the front steps creak in the warming air.The house feels too still in comparison.Too quiet.The air is holding its breath with me.
The screen door cracks open.
And there he is.
Luke’s hair is lightly tousled, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, jeans soft and worn and clinging in a way that feels unfairly attractive this early in the day.There’s something about the way he moves that makes my breath hitch – not in a swoony, romantic way, but in a ‘this will hurt me’ kind of way.
‘Do you ever sleep past dawn?’I ask, trying to sound normal.
‘Rarely,’ he says with a gentle smile, sliding into the seat across from me.
I push the second mug towards him and he takes it.We sit in the sort of silence that would be awkward with anyone else – but with him, just feels …
His knee bumps mine under the table.I don’t pull away.
And that’s the problem.
We sip our coffee.No rush.No real conversation.You only get this type of morning with someone who’s already seen you completely naked and snoring.
There’s toast between us.Some butter.A jar of honey that probably predates Tamagotchis.
Just as I start to think I might be imagining the knot in my chest, Luke says it.
‘So … last night.You mentioned you’re on the pill now.’
I freeze for half a second.Then nod, casually, as if I’m not instantly on alert.‘Yeah.’
He doesn’t press.Just sips his coffee and waits.
‘I started after … everything.’My voice is even, but barely.‘Felt like the smart thing to do, considering I don’t want kids.’
There it is.Finally.
‘Ever,’ I add.
His face doesn’t change.If anything, he stills, like he doesn’t want to spook me.
‘Is that a just-for-now thing, or a forever thing?’he asks, voice soft, careful.
