BETWEEN ME AND YOU

THE NIGHT BEFORE EVERYTHING CHANGED

The door swung open with a soft creak, and laughter spilled into the room, the kind of laughter that only belonged to two people who had loved each other long enough to know each other's rhythms by heart.

Kristine Sanchez stumbled in first, her hair slightly damp from the rain, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. Banjo Gomez followed close behind, his jacket slung over one arm, his other hand still holding hers as if letting go might break the fragile joy between them.

The small apartment was dimly lit, the glow from the city outside slipping through the curtains in faint streaks of gold. The air felt heavy with the scent of rain, of perfume and familiarity, that distinct mix that had become theirs over six years of being together.

Banjo closed the door quietly, and for a moment, they just looked at each other. No words. No hesitation.

Then he moved first, closing the distance in a heartbeat, pressing his lips against hers with all the quiet desperation of a man who had missed her all week. Kristine melted into him, her hands clutching at the back of his neck, pulling him closer. It was the kind of kiss that spoke in fragments of memory: of first dates, of promises made at dawn, of arguments followed by apologies whispered in the dark.

They stumbled toward the bed, still kissing, still breathing each other in as if this night might be their last.

Kristine broke the kiss first, a soft laugh escaping her lips. “You always get too eager,” she teased, brushing her thumb against his lower lip.

Banjo grinned, eyes half-lidded. “Six years and you still act surprised.”

She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Six years and you still act like it’s the first time.”

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. “Every time it feels like the first, Kris.”

For a second, the world seemed to stop spinning, only the sound of rain tapping against the window, the faint rhythm of their hearts aligning again.

Then he kissed her again.

This one was slower... deeper. A different kind of hunger, one built not from need but from knowing. His hands traced her back, her shoulders, every familiar line of her body. She answered with the same tenderness, every touch carrying the weight of six years of love, of every moment that had built them into this.

The room was filled with warmth, the kind that couldn’t be lit by any lamp. Clothes fell quietly to the floor, one piece at a time, until only skin spoke between them.

There were no words for a while. Just whispers, sighs, the kind of silence that lovers build when they don’t need to explain anything.

Kristine looked up at him as he hovered over her, the city light brushing against his face. “Banjo…” she whispered.

He stopped, eyes searching hers. “What?”

She shook her head gently, a smile tugging at her lips. “Nothing. I just... I love you.”

He smiled back, that quiet, earnest smile that always undid her. “I know,” he said softly. “And I love you more than I probably should.”

Their bodies moved like memories, unhurried, familiar, and real. Every breath, every sigh carried the same truth: that love, when it’s been lived in, doesn’t need to prove itself. It just exists.

When it was over, they stayed tangled beneath the sheets, their breaths slowing, their skin still warm from the closeness. The rain outside had quieted to a soft drizzle. Banjo traced circles on her arm, the way he always did when he didn’t want to sleep yet.

Kristine turned toward him, resting her head on his chest. “Banjo,” she said quietly.

“Mmm?”

“I need to tell you something.”

He looked down at her, eyes gentle. “That sounds serious.”

“It’s not bad,” she said quickly, though the tone in her voice said otherwise. “It’s just… I’ll be really busy starting next week.”

Banjo frowned slightly. “Busy? With what?”

She hesitated, choosing her words. “The hospital. They’re moving me to a new department, private care. It’s a good opportunity. The hours will be longer, though. I might not be able to see you that often.”

He blinked, processing. “How often is ‘not that often’?”

Kristine sighed. “Maybe once a week. Twice, if I’m lucky. Depends on the schedule they give me.”

For a moment, Banjo didn’t say anything. He just stared at the ceiling, letting the words sink in. “Once a week,” he repeated quietly.

“I know it’s not ideal,” she said quickly, propping herself up on one elbow. “But this could change everything for me, Banjo. It’s what I’ve been working for, all those extra shifts, the certifications… it’s finally paying off.”

He turned to look at her, his expression soft but weary. “And where do I fit into all that?”

Her lips parted, then closed again. She reached for his hand. “You still do. You always will. I just need to focus right now. I want to make something of myself before...”

“Before what?” he asked gently.

“Before life gets in the way,” she whispered.

Banjo’s hand tightened around hers. “Kris, life is already happening. With us. Right here.”

She smiled sadly. “I know. But sometimes, love isn’t enough.”

He laughed softly, not out of humor, but disbelief. “Six years, Kris. We’ve been through everything. Don’t tell me it’s not enough now.”

“It is,” she said quickly, almost pleading. “It’s more than enough. But I can’t build my whole world around you. You know that’s not who I am.”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “You mean, I’m just the part you visit when you have time.”

“Don’t say that,” she whispered.

“Then tell me I’m wrong.”

She couldn’t. The silence said everything.

Banjo let out a long breath and sat up, running a hand through his hair. “I get it. You have dreams. I’ve always supported that. But… I guess I just didn’t think your dreams would take you away from me.”

Kristine sat up too, reaching for his shoulder. “I’m not leaving you, Banjo. I just need balance. Just… give me time to figure this out.”

He turned to face her, eyes searching hers for the truth. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

He nodded slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing a little. “Then I’ll wait. However long it takes.”

Kristine smiled faintly, leaning forward to press a kiss to his lips, soft, lingering, and filled with quiet gratitude.

They lay back down, side by side, staring at the ceiling in silence. The rain outside had stopped completely now. The night had gone still, almost too still.

Kristine’s mind drifted as she watched the faint light crawl across the walls. She thought of the days ahead, the long shifts, the exhaustion, the pressure. And of Banjo, who would wait for her without complaint, because that was who he was.

And yet, somewhere deep inside, she wondered if love could truly survive, even distance, not the kind measured in miles, but in time, in missed calls, in the quiet between visits.

Banjo, meanwhile, watched her breathing steady as she drifted to sleep. He memorized the curve of her face, the way her fingers twitched slightly when she dreamed.

He didn’t know it then, but this was the night that would replay in his memory over and over again, the night before everything began to change.

The night when love was still simple, when forever still felt possible.

And as the city lights flickered outside their window, Banjo whispered into the dark,

“I’ll hold on, Kris. Even when you’re too busy to remember.”

Kristine stirred faintly, half-asleep, murmuring something he couldn’t catch. But her hand found his, fingers intertwining instinctively.

And in that quiet room, between promise and uncertainty, love lingered... hopeful, and real.