That night we sat on the terrace and talked, really talked—about fears, yes, but also about the small victories that rarely make minutes. Angel spoke about a mentor who’d taken a night course because the foundation’s scholarship made it possible; Conley talked about a case he’d won that freed hours for him to be home. I told them about the small letter a child had mailed to me—an awkward attempt at spelling my name back to front—and how it had looked like a badge. We reveled in the ordinary brags of a life built together.
When tenderness doesn’t need to be defended, it deepens. Our lovemaking that night was an echo of that: unhurried, attentive, full of the kind of closeness that doesn’t insist on noise. We moved through familiar maps but looked for new roads—small adjustments that made o
