She looks younger like this. Unarmored.
Not the woman who walked back into Eden carrying a whole life I wasn't part of.
Just Nora.
My Nora.
I don't reach for her right away, even though every instinct is screaming at me to pull her close, to wake her up with my hands and mouth, to prove to myself that last night wasn't a dream.
There was a time when waking up like this would've sent my chest into a tight spiral—fear, need, the urge to hold on before the moment disappeared.
That version of me would've touched her just to prove she was real.
This morning, I stay still. I listen.
Her breathing is slow and even.
And I just let myself have this moment without the fear that it'll be ripped away.
It feels earned.
She stirs eventually, lashes fluttering as she wakes.
For a second, there's that brief flicker of confusion—where am I, who's here—before recognition settles in and her eyes find mine.
Her mouth curves into a small smile that makes my chest tight.
"Hey," she murmurs, voice rough with sleep and probably also from how much she was using it last night.
"Hi."
It's nothing. Just a word.
But it lands heavy anyway.
A confirmation that this is real, that she's here, that we finally stopped running.
She rolls onto her back, stretching slightly, and the sheet slips even lower.
Every inch of exposed skin is a map I remember tracing with my hands last night.
Then she turns toward me, propping herself up on one elbow, and her eyes track my face like she's reading something I'm not saying.
"You okay?" she asks.
I nod. "Yeah."
She doesn't push. Just studies me, quiet and patient, and I'm suddenly hyperaware that we're both naked, that she's closeenough to touch, that nothing is stopping me from reaching for her except my own attempt at restraint.
"Can I ask you something?" She asks suddenly.
"Of course."
“It might be overstepping a line.”
“After what we just did? I think we’re past overstepping lines.”
She laughs, bringing the duvet up to cover her face.
