The words don’t change, but the way they land does. They sink in, settling low in my chest. There’s no rush to them. No pressure. Just Reed, exactly as he is; honest, careful, choosing me in the quietest way possible.
I miss you more than I expected to.
Pressing the letter flat against my thigh, I stare at the far wall of my apartment.
I’ve had big feelings before—loud ones, messy ones that burned hot, fast, and left me dizzy.
This feels different. This feels like something that doesn’t need to announce itself to be real.
He isn’t asking me to promise anything. He isn’t demanding space in my life. He’s just… there. Waiting.
This is what it feels like to be missed without being needed. To be wanted without being chased.
I fold the letter carefully, smoothing the crease with my thumb, and tucking it back into the envelope.
Opening my closet, I carefully hid the letter in a box, pushing it behind my winter coats.
“Okay,” I whisper, turning to my empty room, my voice steady.
I grab my backpack and finally start packing, throwing whatever I grab from my drawers, not thinking because excitement is eating me away.
For the first time, I’m not nervous about what comes next.
I’m just ready to see him.
Crisp autumn airlingers on my skin as the faint rumble of cars moves along the interstate.
The outdoor lights cast long streaks of gold across the pavement, illuminating dust motes drifting lazily through the air.
I’m tugging on my backpack straps as I scan the passenger pickup zone. Reed said he’d be here.
I check each car for his truck until I spot Reed standingnext to his matte black motorcycle.
His tall, broad shadow is carved beneath the moonlight. He’s leaning against a steel pillar, his boot crossed over the other, with both arms folded across his chest.
I take him in from a distance, admiring him just for a moment.
Worn black jeans molded to the strong contours of his legs, and a black T-shirt replacing his usual flannel. The fabric stretches over his muscular frame, broad across his shoulders and tapering to a lean waist.
The lamplight highlights the edges of his glasses, the lenses shimmering with reflections of the moon overhead. The shadows shift to reveal the burn scars scattered along his arms and the dark ink of his tattoos wrapping around them.
He wore a shirt forme.
His dog tags hang against his chest, brushed silver in the glow, swaying slightly with each breeze through the corridor—his hair curls at the nape of his neck, softening the severity of the rest of him.
Every delicate curl.
Every scar.
Every line and bend of muscle.
I’m in such awe of him until he lifts his eyes from his phone and they land on me.
He pushes off the metal beam and makes his way toward me, and my heart thumps against the straps of my backpack.
In one hand, he holds a scuffed matte-black helmet I’ve worn before. In the other, he holds a second helmet. Also black, but its surface is alive with hand-painted sunflowers, their petals imperfect, golden, and tender in a way that onlymatters when someone paints them with their heart rather than their skill.
A tiny breath slips out of me.
