It’s slow.
Careful.
Like stepping onto thin ice and testing every inch before you move.
No declarations.
No “I love you.”
No dramatic promises.
Just:
You hungry?
Want coffee?
Did you sleep okay?
Domestic.
Gentle.
Dangerous in its own way.
Because this version?
This version makes you forget why you left.
Some mornings I wake up and she’s already outside with a rake, leaves piled high, hair tied back.
Like she belongs here.
Like she’s always belonged here.
My neighbor, Seth, waves at her. He helps me out when he can. Seth drives rigs. Walmart. CVS. He’s mostly on the road or here.
They assume.
Everyone assumes.
And I don’t correct them.
Which feels like a lie.
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.
For the old Sage to surface.
For the edge.
The control.
The heat.
But she stays steady.
And that’s what scares me most.
