He grins. “Yes to both.”
I smack his arm, then settle in closer. “It’s only a terrible idea if we fuck it up. So far, no evidence of that.”
He swings us higher, the chain shrieking a protest. “I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like, some cosmic authority will revoke my good fortune.”
“You’re such a fatalist.”
He shrugs. “It’s a habit. Besides, you’re worth getting in trouble for.”
I think about that—how, when we started, every minute together felt like smuggling a bomb into a courthouse. Now it’s weirdly normal. My toothbrush is in his bathroom. He leaves the French press set up for me. He’s memorized which oat milk I prefer. I know which of his old shirts make for the best pajamas and how to make his hangover smoothie.
There’s a weird peace in that. A comfort.
But I sense the real question under his words, so I say, “You’re not going to get arrested for being with me. I’m a grad student now. You’re just another gross, emotionally-stunted male in my life.”
He laughs, then gets quiet, and I feel him gearing up to say something big.
He picks up my hand, turns it over, traces the lifeline with a fingernail. “Do you ever think about—later? Like, what you want in five years? Ten?”
I watch his face. The last of the sunlight catches on his jaw, the silver hairs at his temple, and I realize I never think of him as old until he reminds me. “Are you planning a midlife crisis? Should I start worrying?”
He lifts my hand to his mouth, kisses the knuckle. “No, I just—sometimes it feels like I’m holding you back. You’re so young, sweetheart. You could do anything, go anywhere. And I’m settled. You know, tenure and all that.”
I twist to face him, pulling my knees up. “You’re not settled. You’re just scared.”
He winces, but not at the accusation. “Maybe. But I want to know what you want. For real.”
I let the question fill the space between us. In the past, this is where I’d make a joke or change the subject, but not tonight.
“I want this,” I say. “I want school, and you. I want to get good enough at poetry that I can teach it someday, maybe even here. I want a life that’s messy and alive, not just—” I falter, searching for the right word.
“Scripted?” he offers.
“Yeah. Not just following the script.”
He relaxes, leans back so his head touches the siding. “Do you want to get married?”
The question lands with a thump. It’s not a proposal. He’s not on one knee. But it’s the kind of thing we never really talked about, beyond the jokes and the near-misses and the time I almost signed a surrogacy contract without thinking it through.
I laugh, a little wild. “Maybe. But we don’t even know if I can get pregnant, genius. The fibroids could come back. I might be a barren wasteland.”
He’s gentle. “I don’t care.”
I roll my eyes, but my heart beats louder. “If it happens, it happens.”
He looks at me, searching for a lie, but finds none. “You’d be a great mom.”
“Gross,” I say, but I feel the words in my chest. “You’d be the worst dad. So embarrassing. Reading Rilke at soccer games.”
He pinches my hip, grinning. “You say that like it’s a threat.”
We laugh, and the swing sways, and the world feels less daunting.
He gets quiet again, staring off at the neighbor’s porch, where someone is playing a sad, distant song on a tinny radio. “My house is too big for me alone,” he says. “I rattle around like loose change. Unless you wanted to, you know. Move in?”
It’s not a big production. He doesn’t even look at me, just lets the words dangle in the air, ready to shrivel or bloom.
I freeze, then bite my lip. “You’re sure?”
