It’s muscle memory.
It’s home.
What happens next isn’t frantic.
Isn’t desperate.
Isn’t the wildfire we used to be.
It’s slow.
Soft.
Like we’re trying not to break anything.
Like we’re both afraid if we move too fast the moment will shatter.
We kiss like we used to, years ago — gentle, learning each other again.
Hands warm. Quiet. Intentional.
No grabbing. No hunger.
Just closeness.
Just breathing.
Just skin and heartbeat and winter light flickering through the blinds.
For a little while, it feels simple.
Like two people who love each other and nothing else exists.
Like maybe we didn’t mess it up beyond repair.
Like maybe we could still save it.
And that’s what scares me the most.
Because soft hope is way more dangerous than chaos ever was.
Later, when she falls asleep beside me, her hand still curled into my shirt like she’s afraid I’ll disappear, I stare at the ceiling.
The little white lights blink in the corner.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
And I realize something awful and honest:
Loving her is easy.
Trusting her is impossible.
