Eventually, people drift away, not all at once, but in small groups. Vraag leans closer, his mouth near my ear, voice low and no longer formal.
“You stayed late,” he says.
“So did you,” I reply.
“Yes,” he agrees. Then, quieter, more personal, “I was thinking about what we might do when we get home.”
An invitation.
His hand slides from my waist to my lower back, fingers spreading there, warm and sure. The touch sends aslow, familiar heat through me, not urgent, not desperate. Anticipatory.
“I’d like that,” I say.
The shift in his expression is pure promise.
We take our time saying goodnight. There’s no rush. Just the shared understanding of what comes next, the quiet, private intimacy that waits for us beyond the firelight.
As we walk away together, his hand stays at my back, guiding me without steering.
I used to think protection meant keeping danger out. I understand now that it’s something quieter than that. It’s a hand at your back. A thumb at your pulse. Someone who knows where you are in every room without having to look—and still lets you decide where you go. I spent a long time afraid that being loved like this meant losing something.
What I lost was the fear itself. My mother never learned to leave. I never learned to stay. Until now.