He’d kissed me then, soft and unhurried, tasting like champagne and something sweeter. When he’d pulled back, his eyes had been bright.
“We’re doing okay,” he’d said.
“We are,” I’d agreed.
The small moments mattered more than the milestones. Jason bringing me coffee in bed on Saturday mornings, made exactly the way I liked it, even though he thought my preference for oat milk was a crime against nature, me proofreading his emails before important meetings, catching the typos he always missed, and the way he’d pull me closer in his sleep, unconscious and certain. Oh, and the way I’d let him.
We fought sometimes. Usually about small things that stood in for larger ones. He’d forget to text when he was running late. I’d retreat into work and forget to surface for days. He’d push when I needed space. I’d overthink when he needed simplicity.
But we always came back.
One night in the fourth year, we’d fought about something I couldn’t even remember the next morning. I’d gone to bed angry, taking my pillow and blanket to the couch in a fit of stubborn pride. Jason had followed me an hour later, sitting on the floor next to the couch in the dark.
“I’m sorry,” he’d said.
“For what?” I’d asked, because I genuinely didn’t know which part he was apologizing for.
“For whatever I did,” he’d said. “I don’t want you on the couch.”
I’d sat up, pulling the blanket around my shoulders. “I don’t want to be on the couch either.”
“Then come back to bed.”
I had.
In the fifth year, Taylor got married. The wedding was small, outdoors, with string lights and terrible speeches and a cake that listed slightly to the left. Jason had been the best man, delivering a toast that had made everyone laugh and cry in equal measure. I’d watched him from my seat, tie loosened, grin wide, and thought about how easily he moved through the world. How much space he made for other people’s joy.
During the reception, he’d found me by the drinks table, pulling me onto the dance floor despite my protests.
“I don’t dance,” I’d said.
“You do now,” he’d replied.
We’d swayed badly to a song I didn’t recognize, his hands on my waist, my hands on his shoulders. People had watched, but I’d stopped caring because I’d lost myself in his loving eyes.
“You’re good at this,” I’d said, because he was. Good at weddings, good at people, good at making everything feel lighter.
“I have a good partner,” he’d said and kissed me in front of everyone.
The thing about Jason was he’d never stopped making me feel like I was the center of his universe.
By the sixth year, the apartment had become a home.Peanut was graying around the muzzle, slower on walks but no less enthusiastic about treats. My bookshelves had multiplied. Jason’s trophies gathered dust in a way that felt affectionate rather than neglectful. We’d painted the bedroom a soft gray-blue after a two-hour argument about whether gray-blue was even a real color.
I’d published my tenth paper in a major journal. Jason had framed it and hung it in the hallway, next to a photo of us from graduation, young and uncertain and trying very hard to look like we had everything figured out.
“We didn’t know anything,” I’d said, looking at the photo.
“Speak for yourself,” Jason had replied. “I’ve never been wrong in my life.”
I’d pinched his ass for being cocky.
One evening, unprompted, Jason had pulled me onto the couch and tucked me against his side. Peanut had climbed up, too, settling across both our laps like a warm, breathing blanket.
“Remember when you showed up at the Bel House to tutor me?” Jason had said.
“You were impossible,” I’d replied.
“You were terrifying.”