I open my eyes. Slowly.
The city beyond the glass is still dim, just starting to glow with early morning light. The skyline looks softer like this. Less sharp. Less demanding.
I shift slightly, just enough to see her face.
And yeah, that hits harder than anything last night did.
She’s peaceful. No guarding herself from me.
No hesitation. No second-guessing.
Just soft. Satisfied. And mine.
Beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with perfection and everything to do with real.
Her lashes rest against her cheeks, her lips slightly parted, her body loose in sleep—like she trusts this moment.
Trusts me.
My chest tightens.
I brush a curl away from her face, careful not to wake her.
She makes a small sound. Barely there. It’s cute as fuck.
And instinct kicks in hard and fast—don’t move. Don’t wake her. Don’t break this.
Because whatever this is?
It feels important.
More than it should.
More than I planned for.
More than I’m ready for.
I don’t know much about love.
Never had reason to.
I didn’t grow up surrounded by it, didn’t build my life chasing it. What I know—what I’ve always known—is hunger. Drive.
The kind of focus that gets you out of nothing and into everything.
Love? That was for other people.
People with time.
People with softer lives.
But this—this thing with Hilary?
It’s not soft. It’s not easy. It doesn’t feel like something you ease into or grow comfortable with.
It hits. Hard. Slams into your gut with a relentless sort of quality I respect.
Like it’s been waiting for me and just decided now was the time.