Stays inside me.
Doesn’t move.
His weight on me. My hands on his back. His heart against my ribs.
The Florida night.
The quiet.
The certainty of after.
I don’t reach for my camera.
I don’t reach for my phone.
I lie there with him still inside me, his hand at the back of my head, his breath warm at my throat, and I don’t move to do anything except be here.
He shifts after a minute. Eases out of me. Settles us sideways into the couch cushions, face to face this time, close enough that I have to choose between his eyes and his mouth and keep losing track of which one I’m looking at.
There’s a thought I’d normally have right now. The one whereI clock the exits. Where I start the quiet arithmetic of how this ends and when I should be ready for it.
It doesn’t come.
I keep waiting for it. It just — doesn’t come.
He doesn’t say anything.
I don’t either.
There’s nothing to say.
I was here. He was here. Both of us. The whole time.
Neither of us needs to name it.
He pulls me closer.
I let him.
The Florida night comes through the window. Brick walks back in from the hallway — exiled with great dignity and zero acceptance — jumps up, and arranges himself in the moonbeam on the counter like he’s been waiting for everyone to sort themselves out.
“Hi,” I tell him.
He blinks once.
I take a picture of him with my phone, just because — then look at the room. Jax coffee cup on the counter. My camera bag by thedoor. Brick in the moonbeam looking completely unbothered by everything.
Almost eight months in Canyon Bay.
My record by a long shot.
Still counting.
There it is.
He falls asleep.
The specific evenness of his breathing. His hand gone still in my hair.
