I don’t mean to stay.
That’s the first lie I tell myself.
After the nursery memory cracks me open, I should leave.
I should go back to the guest room.
Or the hospital.
Or somewhere that doesn’t smell like him.
Instead—
I’m still in his arms.
And neither of us moves.
His hand is at my back.
Warm.
Steady.
Not gripping.
Just… there.
Like he’s afraid I’ll fall again.
My forehead rests against his chest.
I can hear his heartbeat.
Slow.
Controlled.
Infuriatingly calm.
Mine is not.
Mine feels like it’s trying to escape my ribs.
“You can let go,” I whisper.
But I don’t move.
He notices.
“I know,” he says quietly.
But he doesn’t let go either.
Silence stretches between us.
Not hostile.
Not tense.
Just… full.
Of everything we haven’t said.
My fingers curl slightly int
