We move together with an intimacy that has grown from storms weathered and rituals kept. Conley traces a slow path along my spine, then leans forward to press his mouth to the curve of my neck. “I love you,” he says, the words the quiet currency of the night.
“I love you,” I answer, and my voice is steadier than it has been in months. Angel’s soft murmur wraps around us like warmth; she says it too, and the three of us hold that syllable like a gift.
Afterwards we curl close, a tangle of limbs and breath. Conley’s thumb moves in that familiar tiny circle against my skin that soothes and claims in equal measure. Angel hums something tuneless and contented, and the night frames us like a picture.
There is comfort in the ordinary, I think then: in the small domestic rituals that fold our l
