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After inhaling fresh lungfuls of the brisk air, I get to work. Moving the furniture back to where it was, cleaning up the mess I’d made the night I felt like rearranging my space—unaware I was about to rearrange my entire life.

I shake out the blankets and bedding draped over the back of my sofa and make the bed with fresh sheets, returning each pillow to its rightful place. I wipe down every surface and vacuum every corner. By the time I’m done, my hair is slipping out of its clip and my cheeks are flushed from the mix of cold air and exertion. When I close the window and look around my apartment, I’m met with disdain. It looks the same as it always does and I don’t want it to.

Marching into the bedroom, I swap two of the pillows on the bed—the ones I previously blamed on some mischievous entity—but now know was Casper. It makes me feel a little better, but I’m still unsettled in ways I don’t even have words for. The sensation reminds me of putting on damp clothes that came out of the dryer too early.

Next, I drag the Christmas decorations out of the hall closet and sit cross-legged on the floor to sort through the mess of tangled lights. I hang them along the windows first, standing on my tiptoes, knowing this would be easier with someone who was six foot seven. Another strand goes across the doorway into my kitchen. I drape one more over my headboard and save the rest of the lights for the tree. The glowing bulbs add warmth to my apartment, gradually returning to an appropriate indoor temperature.

Once that’s complete, I get to work assembling the small artificial Christmas tree. He doesn’t have anything like this; the only decoration he has—that I’m aware of—is the doormat I gave him. The look on his face when he saw it will forever be etched in my memory. Casper’s eyes filled with awe like I’d just given him the moon. My chest tightens.

I picture his living room, the dark masculine vibes with a festive tree in the corner. I imagine him attempting to string lights, muttering curse words under his breath when they snag on branches. Would he go for classic white or something chaotic like strobing neon LEDs?

When it’s time for me to decorate, I sit beside my small tree and unwrap each bauble from the tissue paper. My mouth twitches as I consider what type of ornaments he’d hang. Mine, of course, are flawlessly coordinated. I have always strived for perfection; why should my Christmas tree be any exception? As long as it looks pretty on the outside, then I’ll look like I have it together and no one, including me, will question my drive. God forbid somebody see my imperfections . . . Casper was the only one who saw me for who I was.

I love that version of you too.

That’s what he said . . . A sob slips free and I bury my face in my hands.

Casper saw my defects and loved me for them—I saw his and ran.

Another fractured cry slips through my fingers, sounding too loud in my still apartment. Another follows, and another after that. I wipe the tears and glance at the ceiling while taking a deep breath. Haloes from the cheerful lights blur and stretch as I attempt to dry my eyes with the heels of my palms. I peer at my reflection in the round, glassy globes that surround me, organized in small clusters by color.

Fucking ridiculous.

Beside me the half-bare tree waits to be “finished”—because this isn’t good enough. Casper would see it and say it’s beautiful as it is. He saw the ugly, broken, raw parts I kept hidden with exhausting control and perfect smiles.

He saw me, really saw me, and it was the safest I’ve ever felt. When it was my turn to do the same, I didn’t accept him. I regarded his damaged parts, his darkness, the terrifying scale of what he is willing to do for me . . . with rejection. I can blame it on shock, fear, betrayal—all of which are valid—but afterward I shut him out.

Casper showed me who he really was and I fucking recoiled.

He didn’t just love me when I was poised and polished, he loved me when I was in stripping in shady nightclubs, when my past showed up at my doorstep, when my back was etched with jagged scars. Not once did he ask me to be anything other than what I am—all he wanted was for me to show it to him.

I feel sick.

Maybe the reason this hurts so badly is because I have to ask myself whether I love him with the same courage. I have my answer before I even finish the question: Yes. I love him with fear, confusion, anger—with all the fickle contradictions that come with him.

I owe it to him to have a conversation. If he’s brave enough to do what he did, then I can be brave enough to fucking face him. To hear him. To stand beside him in the rubble and admit that ugly, imperfect love is still love.

Maybe even the truest kind, and that’s what I want with Casper.

I find my phone buried under a mountain of tissue paper. When I unlock it, there’s another appointment reminder text, alerting me of a date change—I’m supposed to reply with a Y or N—I haven’t been responding at all.

I stare at the screen with a twinge in my chest. A tattoo appointment is neutral ground; even knowing it means having a needle in my back, it still feels safer. He deserves to see I’m choosing to trust his touch. I don’t want him to think I fear him as a person, but I need to understand why he did it.

It will force me to stay still. To listen. To think before I react.

Our beginning started with a tattoo appointment; maybe that’s what we need to fix us, give us a second chance. It’s not the most convenient thing for him, but meeting in a place of familiarity will provide structure before we get into the things I witnessed.

However, this isn’t a conversion for Black Rabbit. I glance around my apartment, at the freshly cleaned space. Inviting him into my home might be a safe place to start after keeping him locked out for the last eleven days.

I exit the automated text message from Black Rabbit and click on Casper’s name. Back to the screen I stared at in my car earlier this week. My pulse climbs as I figure out what to even say. I shake my head and start tapping the screen before I lose my nerve. This time I don’t wait to critique my wording or overthink the message a million times; I just hit send.

Can you do a house call tomorrow to finish my tattoo?

I read what I sent three times, my heart pounding. It sounds bare, too cold. I should have edited that. I tap out another message.

I want you here.

I stare at that one before sending. It’s direct, too much after eleven days. My thumb hits send anyway and panic floods my system so fast I nearly drop the phone. I lock the screen and put it face down. My heart rails against my rib cage while I wait for his response. I suck in a breath and try to slow my breathing. It vibrates, and I snatch it up, desperate to see his response.