Page 144 of Love, Literature, and the Linebacker

The ocean.

The steady hum of airplanes somewhere overhead.

Even the sunlight feels different here.

Sharper.

Warmer.

New.

It’s been three weeks since I stepped off that plane with two suitcases, one box of books, and absolutely no idea what I was doing. Only that I start at a small publishing house on Monday. The position is temporary. But for once, the unknown feels like possibility instead of danger.

Moving in with Dylan this quickly was not the careful plan either of us expected. So, we signed a six-month lease, agreed to keep talking if things feel difficult, and promised that neither of us was trapped if California stopped feeling right.

I bring the coffee mug up to my lips and take a sip as I look out the apartment window.

Palm trees sway outside instead of oak trees.

The smell of saltwater drifts through the cracked balcony door instead of fresh-cut grass.

Different.

Not better.

“Morning,” I hear as the apartment door opens behind me.

I glance over my shoulder. Dylan drops his gym bag beside the couch before crossing the room.

“Morning,” I say as he leans down and kisses the top of my head the way he always does now.

No panic.

No doubt.

Just the quiet relief of seeing him come home.

“How was your workout?” I ask him.

“It was good.” He runs his fingers through my hair. “Working already?” he asks.

“A little.”

He looks toward my laptop. The cursor blinks patiently on an otherwise blank page. “Did Chapter One finally win the argument?”

I laugh. “It put up a fight.”

“I figured.”

He disappears into the kitchen, humming to himself, completely unaware that he still makes me smile every time he walks through the front door and comes home to me.

“You want breakfast?”

“In a minute,” I call over my shoulder.

“Take your time.”

He doesn’t ask what I’m writing. He doesn’t read over my shoulder. He simply trusts that if I want to share it, I will.