Only the steady presence beneath me.
If he was awake, he didn’t move.
If he was asleep, I couldn’t tell.
That uncertainty should have made me tense.
Instead, it made me oddly still.
I shifted slowly, careful not to disturb him, and slid off his chest until I was sitting on the edge of the bed.
The moment I moved, I felt it.
His hand—previously resting on my back—slipped away with a soft, unconscious drop onto the mattress.
He was asleep.
That realization settled strangely in my chest.
Rafael had fallen asleep while I was on top of him.
I sat there quietly, listening.
His breathing remained steady.
Unguarded in a way I had never heard from him in waking moments.
It made something in my chest twist.
Slowly, I pulled my legs in closer to myself, resting my hands on my lap.
I should have left the bed immediately. I should have created distance.
That was what made sense. But I didn’t move right away.
Instead, I stayed there for a few extra seconds, listening to his breathing in the quiet room.
Eventually, I stood.
But the moment I was fully upright, I froze.
I realized I didn’t know how to move through this room.
It wasn’t mine, and the mental image I had of it felt unreliable at best.
One wrong step and I might hit something—worse, I might wake him.
I stayed still for a moment, listening.
Then, instinctively, I lifted my hands slightly, uncertain, hovering them in front of me as though they could somehow map the space better than memory ever could.
An old habit I hadn’t relied on in a long time.
The silence felt delicate now—fragile in a way I didn’t want to disturb.
I didn’t want to wake him.
Not after everything that had just happened. Not after I had broken down in his arms like something that had forgotten how to hold itself together.
