Page 217 of Puck Me Back to Life

“You've had a long day.”

“So have you.”

“I'll survive.”

“You always say that.”

“I usually mean it.”

He hums again. The vibration carries through my chest where he's leaning against me.

Minutes pass. Or maybe longer. Time doesn't seem particularly important.

Eventually I notice Kai's breathing changing again. Longer. Slower. He's drifting. His head slips farther back until it's resting fully against my shoulder.

I brush another kiss into his damp hair. “Don't fall asleep in the bathtub.”

“I'd never.”

“You absolutely would.”

“No.” His protest is barely understandable.

I smile to myself. “I've got you.”

Another sleepy hum.

A few weeks ago, I was terrified of losing him. Some mornings I still wake up with that fear sitting heavy in my chest. Then he leans against me like this—trusting me completely—and I remember that healing isn't one dramatic moment.

It's this.

It's showing up.

Again and again.

It's quiet evenings.

Shared baths.

Conversations with therapists.

Breakfast diners.

Books.

Hockey.

Laughter.

It's choosing each other every day.

Kai shifts slightly, nestling even closer beneath my chin.

Then, in a voice so soft I'm not entirely sure I heard it, he says, “I love you.”

The words are slurred with sleep. Almost mumbled. Almost lost beneath the music.

But I hear every single one.