The Life We Had
1073 Words
By the time I got home, it was almost seven.
I kicked off my heels by the door and dropped my bag onto the console table.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
I checked my phone.
Nothing.
I looked at the clock.
7:03.
I smiled despite myself.
He was late.
Three minutes late.
Apparently, I had married a liar.
I walked into the living room and found the city glowing beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. Manhattan looked almost unreal from this height—thousands of lights scattered beneath the darkening sky, cars moving like tiny streams of gold.
I loved this view.
But I loved what usually happened after seven even more.
Him coming home.
His footsteps.
The sound of his keys.
His voice calling my name from downstairs.
The little things that had slowly become the shape of my life.
He tossed his jacket over the banister, his fingers already working at the remaining buttons of his shirt as he carried me up the stairs, his breath warm against my neck. By the time we reached the bedroom, the heavy fabric of our clothes felt like a barrier we were both eager to shed.
He set me down on the edge of the mattress, but before I could move, he was kneeling between my knees, his hands sliding up my thighs with a deliberate, heated slowness that made my breath hitch. His eyes darkened, that tired exhaustion completely replaced by a raw, consuming focus that was entirely for me.
"Still want to wait on dinner?" he murmured, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin just below my jaw.
I tangled my fingers in his hair, pulling him closer as a shiver ran down my spine. "Forget dinner."
He smiled against my skin, a low, appreciative sound vibrating in his chest, before his mouth found mine with a sudden, urgent hunger. Every trace of hesitation vanished as the kisses deepened, growing heavier, more demanding. His hands traced the curve of my waist, burning hot wherever they touched, pulling me flush against him until there was no space left between us.
We sank onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs, breathless whispers, and rising heat. His touch was both tender and intensely possessive, learning the contours of my body as if it were a language he needed to relearn every single night. Every stroke of his hands, every slide of his lips down my collarbone and over my skin, chased away the last remnants of the outside world, leaving only the friction of our skin, the rapid beat of our hearts, and the overwhelming, intoxicating warmth of us dissolving into one another.
⸻
Later that night, we lay beside each other in the darkness.
My head rested against his chest.
His fingers moved lazily through my hair.
I listened to his heartbeat.
Steady.
Familiar.
Safe.
“Do you ever think about the future?” I asked.
“All the time.”
“What does it look like?”
He was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “You.”
I smiled.
“That isn’t a future.”
“It is mine.”
I lifted my head.
“What else?”
“A bigger house?”
“We already have a ridiculous house.”
“A vacation house.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere warm.”
“That’s vague.”
“Then you choose.”
I thought for a moment.
“Italy.”
He went still for the briefest second.
I didn’t notice.
“Milan?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
“Why Milan?”
“I don’t know. I’ve always wanted to go.”
He looked at me.
“You’ve never been?”
“No.”
I smiled.
“Maybe we’ll go someday.”
“Maybe.”
I settled back against him.
“What about children?”
His hand stopped moving.
Just for a moment.
Then he continued stroking my hair.
“Children?”
“Yes.”
He looked toward the ceiling.
“One day.”
I smiled.
“One day?”
“One day.”
“How many?”
He laughed softly.
“You’re planning our entire life tonight.”
“Someone has to.”
He turned toward me.
“One.”
“Only one?”
“Maybe two.”
“Maybe?”
“Three if you promise they won’t inherit your stubbornness.”
I hit his chest.
“Excuse me?”
He laughed.
I loved that sound.
It was rare outside our home.
The world knew him as controlled and intimidating.
I knew the man who laughed when I burned pancakes.
The man who secretly stole fries from my plate.
The man who remembered the exact way I liked my coffee.
The man who kissed my forehead when I fell asleep on the sofa.
That was my husband.
That was the man I trusted.
⸻
The next morning, I woke before him.
He was still asleep, one arm stretched across the empty space where I had been.
I watched him for a moment.
There was something peaceful about him when he slept.
No sharp edges.
No business calls.
No decisions worth millions of dollars.
Just the man I loved.
I leaned over and kissed his cheek.
His eyes opened.
“Are you leaving?”
“Good morning to you too.”
He pulled me back into his arms.
“Stay.”
“I have work.”
“So do I.”
“Then get up.”
“No.”
I laughed.
“You’re like a child.”
“I’m comfortable.”
“You’re also going to be late.”
“I own the company.”
“You’ll still be late.”
He opened one eye.
“Come back here.”
I kissed him quickly.
“Coffee first.”
He sighed dramatically.
“You’re cruel.”
I slipped out of his arms, smiling.
As I walked toward the bathroom, his phone began vibrating on the nightstand.
He reached for it.
I didn’t turn around.
I didn’t need to.
At that point, his phone was just his phone.
Another part of the life we had built together.
Nothing more.
Nothing worth wondering about.
I didn’t know that one day, I would remember how easily I used to ignore that sound.
How much trust could make you blind.
How love could convince you that there was nothing hiding in the shadows.
For now, though, I believed in us.
And that morning, that was enough.
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