The lamp was still burning.
Riley blinked against it, the bulb casting a yellow halo across the ceiling he'd stared at a thousand times. The gray light of dawn was seeping through the blinds now, thin and blue, mixing with the artificial glow until the room felt suspended between night and morning. He didn't move. Couldn't. Not with her hand curled against his chest, her fingers slack and warm, the weight of her palm a small anchor pressing into his skin through the fabric of his shirt.
Jessica's breath was warm on his collarbone, slow and even, the rhythm of someone who had finally let go. The borrowed shirt—one of his, gray and soft from too many washes—had slipped off her shoulder during the night, revealing the pale curve of her skin, the faint shadow of a collarbone he could trace without looking. He didn't look. He just listened to her breathe, felt the rise and fall of her ribs against his side, and let the sound settle something in his chest that had been restless for years.
The refrigerator hummed from the kitchen, a low vibration that had become the background music of his apartment, of his life. Somewhere on the nightstand, his phone was probably dead or nearly there, and across the room, her duffel bag sat open on the floor, the edge of a script peeking out like a flag. He could see it from here—the title in bold, the pages worn at the corners, the evidence of a life she was building that had somehow, impossibly, intersected with his own.
The weight of what they'd said last night was settling into his bones. Not heavy. Not the kind of weight that pressed down, that made him want to shrink. It was solid. Grounding. Like a rock he could stand on and know it wouldn't shift. A promise that hadn't learned to walk yet, but was learning to breathe.
He replayed the shape of the words, not the exact syllables but the way they'd felt in his mouth. I love you. He'd said it. She'd said it back. And then she'd called him babe for the first time, and he'd felt something crack open in his ribs, something he hadn't known was sealed shut.
Her fingers flexed against his chest, a small movement, reflexive. Not waking yet. Just the body testing the edges of sleep. He held his breath without meaning to, watching her face in the dim light. Her lips were parted, her brow smooth, her dark hair mussed against his pillow. She looked younger in sleep. Softer. Like the armor she wore during the day—the dramatic presence, the theatrical enthusiasm, the way she filled a room—had been set aside, folded neatly, waiting for morning.
He wanted to memorize this. The way the lamp light caught the edge of her jaw. The way her hand curved over his heart. The way her toes, cold from the night air, had found his calf under the sheet and stayed there, a small point of contact that felt like a claim.
The bottle on the landing contained the scent of her shampoo—something floral, something expensive, something that didn't belong in his cheap bathroom but had taken up residence there anyway. He could smell it in the pillowcase, in the collar of his shirt, in the air between them. It was the smell of her staying.
She was staying.
He let that sit, let it unfurl in his chest like something alive. She was staying with him, in his apartment, in his bed, in his life, and she had called him home. Not a place. A person. Home. The word kept looping, and he didn't try to stop it.
The clock on the nightstand ticked. He could see it now that his eyes had adjusted—the hands pointing to 6:47. The farmer's market started at nine. They had hours. Hours of this. Hours of her breath against his skin, of the slow darescent light creeping across the floor, of the sound of her sleeping and the knowledge that when she woke, she would smile at him and call him that name like it belonged to her.
His arm had gone numb under her head, but he didn't move. He didn't want to. The pins and needles were a small price to pay for the weight of her against him, for the trust implicit in the way she'd fallen asleep with her hand on his chest, like she believed he would keep her safe through the night.
The numbness in his arm had spread past his shoulder now, a dull ache that radiated from his elbow to his fingertips. He flexed his hand experimentally, felt the pins and needles sharpen, then recede. Jessica didn't stir. Her breath stayed even, her hand stayed pressed against his heart, and the small movement he'd made seemed to go unnoticed by everything except his own body, which was reminding him, patiently, that flesh and blood had limits.
He didn't care. The ache was a comfort, a physical proof that she was here, that he was holding her, that the night had happened and the morning was real. He let his fingers curl, let the sensation claw back into his palm, and kept his arm exactly where it was.
The light through the blinds was changing. What had been thin and blue was warming now, taking on a soft gold that caught the dust motes drifting through the room. He watched them turn, slow and aimless, caught in the column of light that fell across the foot of the bed. The lamp was still burning, its yellow glow thin against the growing day, and he knew he should get up and switch it off, but getting up would mean moving her, and moving her was the last thing he wanted to do.
Her toes shifted against his calf. A small flex, unconscious, followed by a sigh that stirred the collar of his shirt. Her hand moved too, sliding an inch up his chest until her fingers found the hollow of his throat, then settled there, her palm flat against his pulse. He felt it jump under her touch, felt her fingers curl slightly in response, like she was feeling it too, even in sleep.
He watched her face. The gold light was reaching the edge of the pillow now, touching the dark fan of her lashes, the curve of her cheek, the small crease between her brows that appeared when she was dreaming. Her lips parted, and she made a sound—not a word, not quite a sigh, something in between—and he felt a tenderness rise in his chest so sudden and so vast that he had to close his eyes against it.
This was real. She was real. The words they'd spoken were not a dream he'd wake from alone.
The clock ticked. 6:52 now. Five minutes had passed while he'd been lost in the shape of her breathing.
From the floor, the edge of the script caught the light—Chet's print, worn pages, a title he couldn't quite read from this angle. He remembered her duffel bag, remembered watching her unzip it last night, pulling out the folded pages like they were something sacred. The play was the thing she'd been chasing for two years. The play was the thing she'd booked. And she'd come to him first. Not a call to her agent, not a text to her mother, not a post to the group chat. She'd come to his apartment, crying and radiant, and told him before she told anyone else.
He didn't know what to do with that. With the weight of being chosen first.
Her fingers stirred against his throat. This time, the movement was different—conscious, searching. Her thumb brushed his jaw, feather-light, and he opened his eyes to find hers open too, dark and soft and still carrying the haze of sleep.
She blinked. Once. Twice. Her lips curved, the ghost of a smile, and she said nothing.
He said nothing either. There wasn't anything to say. The silence was full enough—full of the lamp light and the dawn and the warmth of their bodies pressed together under the cheap cotton sheets. Full of the words from last night that still hung in the air between them, invisible but solid, a bridge they'd both crossed.
Her thumb traced his jaw again, a slow, deliberate stroke, and he felt the touch all the way down his spine.
"Hey," she said. Her voice was rough, sleep-roughened, lower than usual. It was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.
"Hey," he said back.
She smiled then, a real smile, the kind that reached her eyes and crinkled the corners. "You're still here."
"Where else would I be?"
"I don't know." Her hand slid from his throat to his chest, her palm pressing flat over his heart. "I thought maybe I dreamed it. The whole thing."
He shook his head. "You didn't."
"Good." She let her eyes close for a moment, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "Because I don't think I could survive waking up and finding out it wasn't real."
Something cracked in his chest, warm and sharp at the same time. "It's real," he said. "I'm real. We're real."
She opened her eyes again. The lamp light caught the dark of her iris, the flecks of gold he hadn't noticed before, and she looked at him with an intensity that made his breath catch.
"I love you," she said. Not testing the words this time, not offering them like a question. Just stating it, like a fact she'd known for a long time and was finally allowed to say out loud.
"I love you too," he said. And it was easy now. Natural. Like breathing.
Her hand slid up his chest, over his collarbone, into the curve of his neck. Her fingers threaded through the hair at the nape, and she tugged, just barely, pulling him closer. He went. Willingly. Eagerly. His nose brushed hers, and he could smell her shampoo, floral and expensive, mixing with the warmth of her skin.
"What time is it?" she asked, her lips brushing his as she spoke.
"Almost seven."
"We have hours."
"Hours," he agreed.
"Good." She kissed him then, soft and slow, her mouth warm and tasting of sleep. It wasn't a hungry kiss. It wasn't desperate. It was the kind of kiss that said I'm here, I'm staying, and I'm not going anywhere. He kissed her back the same way, letting his hand find the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the warm skin exposed where her shirt had ridden up.
She broke the kiss, but only to rest her forehead against his, her breath mingling with his in the small space between them.
"I could get used to this," she whispered.
"To what?"
"Waking up like this." Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, down to his chin, along the edge of his lower lip. "With you. With your heart beating under my hand. With the sun coming up and knowing I don't have to leave."
He swallowed. His throat was tight. "You don't have to leave," he said. "Ever. I meant it last night. You're home. You're my home."
Her eyes glistened, just slightly, but she blinked it away and smiled. "That's a lot of pressure for a one-bedroom apartment."
He laughed, a quiet rasp that surprised him. "The apartment's just a place. You're the home."
She kissed him again, quicker this time, then pulled back and looked at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Fond. Curious. A little bit awed.
"I'm going to make you breakfast," she said.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "You've been taking care of me since I showed up at your door with nothing but a duffel bag and a breakdown. Let me take care of you for once."
He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. Because the truth was, he didn't want to argue. He wanted to let her. He wanted to lie here and watch her move through his kitchen, wearing his shirt, making him food, filling his small apartment with the sound of her presence.
"Okay," he said.
Her smile brightened. "Okay?"
"Okay."
She kissed the corner of his mouth, then started to pull away, but he caught her wrist, stopping her.
"Wait."
She paused, looking at him.
"Just…" He didn't know how to say it. Didn't know how to tell her that he wasn't ready to let go yet, that the idea of her leaving this bed, even for the kitchen, even for ten minutes, felt like a loss. "Just a little longer."
Her expression softened. She settled back against him, her head finding its place in the hollow of his shoulder, her hand returning to its spot over his heart. Her toes found his calf again, cold and claiming.
"A little longer," she agreed.
The clock ticked. 6:58. The gold light had spread across the bed now, warming the sheets, catching the edge of her hair where it spilled across his chest. The lamp was still burning, but it seemed dimmer now, defeated by the day. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere outside, a car started, then faded. The world was waking up.
But here, in this bed, time had stopped.
He let his hand trace the curve of her spine, slow and absent, feeling the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of his shirt. She made a small sound of contentment, pressing closer, and he felt the vibration of it against his ribs.
"Riley?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm scared."
His hand stilled. He looked down at her, but she wasn't looking at him. Her eyes were fixed on the dust motes turning in the light, her expression guarded.
"Scared of what?" he asked, keeping his voice gentle.
She was quiet for a long moment. Then: "That this is too good to be true. That I'm going to wake up tomorrow and you'll be gone. Or I'll be gone. Or something will happen, and this—" she pressed her hand harder against his chest "—this will be a memory I'm not sure I actually had."
He tightened his arm around her. "I'm not going anywhere."
"You don't know that."
"I know I don't," he said, and the admission came easier than he expected. "But I also know that right now, this is real. And right now, I'm here. And right now, I'm not going anywhere."
She was quiet. Her fingers curled into his shirt, gripping the fabric like she was anchoring herself to the moment. The lamp light caught the edge of her jaw, the curve of her cheek, the small pulse beating at her throat. He watched it, steady and sure, and let the rhythm settle into his own chest.
"That's not very romantic," she said finally, and there was a tremor in her voice that she was trying to hide. "You're supposed to promise me forever."
He smiled, soft and slow. "I could promise you forever. But I don't think you'd believe me, and I don't think I'd know how to keep it yet. I don't even know what forever looks like. I just know what right now looks like."
She lifted her head, meeting his eyes. The gold light was catching her face now, warming the dark of her irises, softening the lines of her expression. "And what does right now look like?"
He considered the question. Let his gaze drift across her face, across the room, across the small details that had become the shape of his morning. The lamp still burning, pointless and stubborn. The dust motes turning in the column of light. The edge of her script, visible from the duffel bag on the floor. Her toes, cold against his calf, grounding him to the present like a root.
"Right now looks like this," he said. "Like you in my bed, wearing my shirt, with your hand on my chest. Like the sun coming up and the lamp still being on because neither of us got up to turn it off. Like your script on the floor and your duffel bag by the door and the way your hair smells like shampoo that costs more than my weekly coffee budget."
A sound escaped her. Half laugh, half sob. "You noticed my shampoo?"
"I notice everything about you."
Her breath caught. The small sound of it, the hitch in her ribs, was louder than any word she could have spoken. He felt it against his own chest, felt the tremor run through her body and into his, and he tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer.
"That's the thing about right now," he said, his voice dropping lower. "It's not a promise. It's not forever. It's just—this. Us. Here. And it's enough. It's more than enough."
She stared at him. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying. Not yet. The light caught the moisture at the rims, making them gleam, and he watched her blink, watched her swallow, watched something shift behind her gaze.
"You're really good at this," she said.
"At what?"
"At making me feel like I'm the only person in the world."
He shook his head. "I'm not good at anything. I'm just—telling you the truth. That's all I know how to do."
She kissed him. Quick and fierce, her hand sliding up his chest, into the curve of his neck, her fingers pressing against the base of his skull. He felt the heat of her mouth, the softness of her lips, the way she tilted her head to fit against him better. And he kissed her back, letting his hand find the curve of her hip, the warm skin where her shirt had ridden up, the small dip of her waist that fit perfectly in his palm.
When she broke the kiss, she was breathing harder, her forehead pressed to his, her eyes closed.
"I'm still scared," she whispered.
"I know."
"But I think I'm okay with being scared. As long as I'm scared with you."
He felt the words settle into his ribs, warm and permanent. "That's all I'm asking for."
The clock ticked. 7:04 now. The lamp light was nearly invisible against the growing day, a pale ghost of itself, and the gold across the bed had deepened, warming the sheets, warming her skin, warming the small space between them where their breath mingled and their heartbeats found a shared rhythm.
She shifted, her hand sliding from his chest to his shoulder, then up, her fingers tracing the line of his collarbone, the curve of his neck, the edge of his jaw. Her touch was light, almost questioning, like she was memorizing the geography of him by feel. He let her. Stayed still under her fingers, watching her face, watching the concentration in her brow, the way her lips parted as she traced the shape of him.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Learning you." Her fingers reached his chin, then paused. "I want to know every part of you. The parts you show everyone and the parts you hide. I want to know them all."
His throat tightened. "That's a lot of parts."
"I have time."
Her thumb brushed his lower lip, feather-light, and he felt the touch all the way down his spine. The pins and needles in his arm had faded into a dull warmth, the numbness replaced by the sensation of her weight, her warmth, the small sounds she made as she breathed. The refrigerator hummed. The lamp glowed. The script edge caught the light, and the world outside the window was waking up, cars passing, birds beginning their morning chorus.
But here, in this bed, time had stopped again.
Her thumb rested at the corner of his mouth. She didn't say anything. She didn't have to. The gesture said everything—the trust, the tenderness, the promise taking its first step, learning to walk, moving through the warm gold light toward a future neither of them could see but both of them believed in.
She was still scared. She'd told him that. And he was scared too—scared of failing, scared of breaking this, scared of waking up one day and finding out he'd done something wrong, said something wrong, been something wrong. But right now, with her thumb at the corner of his mouth and her heart beating under his hand and the morning stretching open in front of them, full of everything they hadn't said yet, the fear was just a shape in the room. It wasn't the room itself.
The room was this. The lamp. The light. The warmth of her body against his. The small, sacred fact of her staying.
He turned his head, just slightly, and pressed a kiss to the inside of her wrist. She exhaled, a long, slow breath, and let her eyes close.
"The farmer's market," she said, her voice drowsy. "We're still going?"
"If you want to."
"I want to." She opened her eyes, and they were clear now, the doubt gone, replaced by something soft and steady. "I want to walk through the stalls with you and buy too much bread and argue about which peaches are better."
He smiled. "That sounds perfect."
"It will be." She settled back against him, her head finding its place in the hollow of his shoulder, her hand returning to its spot over his heart. "But first—" she pressed a kiss to his collarbone "—a little longer."
"A little longer," he agreed.
The lamp was still burning. The light was still gold. And her thumb was still resting at the corner of his mouth, a small, impossible weight, a promise that had taken its first step and was learning to walk, moving through the morning toward everything they hadn't said yet.
"Hey, babe?"
The word landed in the warm space between them, and Riley felt his face flush before he even knew why. Jessica's voice was still rough with sleep, but there was something else in it now—a curiosity, a lightness, the sound of someone testing the edges of a door she wasn't sure was unlocked.
"Yeah?"
She didn't answer right away. Her thumb had stopped its slow tracing at the corner of his mouth, and he watched her eyes drift down his chest, then back up to his face, then down again. There was a calculation happening behind her dark eyes, a decision being made in real time, and he found himself holding his breath without meaning to.
"Have you ever felt a breast before?"
His jaw dropped. He felt it happen, felt the muscles go slack, felt his mouth open and close with nothing coming out. The question hung in the air between them, casual and devastating, and she laughed—a real laugh, bright and surprised, the kind that crinkled her eyes and shook her shoulders against his chest.
"Oh my god," she said, still laughing. "Your face. I wish I had a camera."
"I—" He closed his mouth. Opened it again. "That's not—you can't just—"
"I just did." She was grinning now, propped up on her elbow, looking down at him with an expression that was equal parts amusement and something softer. "And you still haven't answered the question."
He could feel the heat crawling up his neck, spreading across his cheeks, settling into his ears. His hand, which had been resting on her hip, suddenly didn't know where to go. He left it there. Moving it would have been an admission.
"I mean," he started, and his voice cracked on the first word. He cleared his throat. "I've, uh. I've touched them. Sort of. During—" He gestured vaguely at the air between them, at the memory of strip poker, at the general chaos of the past few weeks. "Things. But not, like—not properly. Not the way you're asking."
Her grin softened into something gentler. "So no."
"No." The word came out smaller than he intended. "No, I haven't."
She nodded slowly, her eyes searching his face. The lamp light caught the dark of her iris, the flecks of gold he'd noticed earlier, and she looked at him with an intensity that made his breath catch in his throat.
"Do you want to?"
The question landed like a stone in still water. The refrigerator hummed. The clock ticked. Somewhere outside, a car passed, its engine fading into the growing morning.
"I—" He swallowed. His mouth was suddenly dry. "Jess, you don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." She said it simply, without drama, without the theatrical weight she carried through the rest of her life. This was just her, raw and present, her hand resting on his chest like it belonged there. "I'm asking if you want to."
He looked at her. Really looked. The way the gold light caught the edge of her jaw. The way her dark hair fell across her forehead, mussed from sleep. The way her lips were parted, waiting, patient. The way her hand curved over his heart, steady and sure.
"Yes," he said. The word came out before he could stop it, before he could second-guess it, before he could shrink it down into something safer. "Yes, I want to."
Her smile was slow and warm, spreading across her face like the light spreading across the bed. She shifted, moving her weight off him, and he felt the loss of her warmth immediately—a small absence that made his chest ache.
"Okay," she said. "Then feel."
She took his hand. His big, clumsy hand, the one that had never known what to do with itself, the one he kept in his pockets around girls he liked. She took it and guided it to her chest, pressing his palm flat against the soft cotton of his own shirt, against the warm swell beneath.
He felt her heartbeat. That was the first thing. A steady, rhythmic pulse under his palm, faster than he expected, matching the speed of his own. The second thing was the warmth—the soft heat of her body seeping through the fabric, radiating into his skin. The third thing was the weight. The give. The way his hand, which was large enough to span a basketball, curved around a shape that was entirely new to him.
He didn't move. Didn't breathe. His palm stayed flat against her, and he watched his own hand as if it belonged to someone else, as if it were performing an act of tremendous significance that he wasn't sure he was worthy of.
"It's okay," she said, her voice soft. "You can—you can actually touch it. I won't break."
His fingers curled, just slightly. Testing. Learning. The fabric of the shirt shifted under his hand, and he felt the shape of her more clearly—the softness, the weight, the subtle give of flesh that yielded to his pressure and then held.
"Oh," he said. It was the only word he had.
"Oh?" She was smiling, he could hear it in her voice. "That's all I get?"
"I don't—" He shook his head, his eyes still fixed on his hand. "I didn't know it would feel like that."
"Like what?"
"Like—" He searched for the word. "Warm. Soft. But also—I don't know. Like it's alive."
She laughed, a quiet sound that vibrated through her chest and into his palm. "It is alive. It's attached to me. I'm alive."
"I know. I just—" He finally looked up, meeting her eyes. "I didn't know it would feel like you."
Her breath caught. He felt it, the small hitch in her ribs, the way her heart quickened under his hand. The smile faded from her face, replaced by something more serious, more tender, more real.
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me about my boobs," she said, and her voice was thick.
"I meant it."
"I know." She covered his hand with hers, pressing it more firmly against her chest. "I know you did."
He let himself feel it then. Let his fingers explore the shape of her, the curve, the weight. He traced the edge of her through the fabric, learning the geography of her body the way she'd been learning the geography of his face. His thumb found the center of her, the soft peak beneath the cotton, and he felt her breath catch again.
"Is this okay?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yes." Her hand tightened over his. "That's okay. That's more than okay."
He pressed his palm flat again, feeling the warmth of her, the life of her, the small, sacred fact of her body trusting his. The shirt was thin, worn soft from too many washes, and he could feel everything through it—the texture of her skin, the shape of her, the way she responded to his touch.
"Can I—" He hesitated. "Can I see it?"
She didn't answer with words. She just reached down, caught the hem of the shirt, and pulled it up. Not off—just up, gathering the fabric at her collarbone, exposing the pale curve of her breast to the gold morning light.
He forgot to breathe.
She was beautiful. Of course she was beautiful, she was Jessica, she was the girl who filled rooms, who commanded stages, who had been told her whole life that she was stunning. But this was different. This wasn't the beauty of a performance or a photograph. This was the beauty of a body, real and warm and human, the soft swell of her breast rising and falling with her breath, the dark peak at its center, the way the light caught the curve of it and made it glow.
He reached out, slowly, giving her time to stop him. She didn't. His fingers brushed the underside of her, the soft weight of her, and he heard her exhale, a long, slow breath that seemed to loosen something in her chest.
"You're shaking," she said.
He looked down at his hand. She was right. His fingers were trembling, just slightly, a fine tremor that he couldn't control.
"Sorry," he said. "I don't—I don't know why I'm—"
"Don't apologize." Her hand came up, covering his, guiding it, pressing his palm against her. "It's okay. I'm nervous too."
"You are?"
"Are you kidding?" She laughed, a small, breathless sound. "I've never done this before either. Not like this. Not with someone who—" She stopped. Swallowed. "Not with someone who matters."
His throat tightened. He curled his fingers, feeling the shape of her, the give of her, the way she fit perfectly in his palm like she'd been made for it.
"You matter," he said. "You matter so much."
She kissed him. Quick and fierce, her hand sliding up his chest, into the curve of his neck, her fingers pressing against the base of his skull. He felt the heat of her mouth, the softness of her lips, and he kissed her back, his hand still on her breast, his thumb tracing small circles against her skin.
She made a sound against his mouth—a small, soft sound, barely a whimper—and he felt it travel through his body like a current. His hand moved on its own, learning her, finding the places that made her breathe faster, that made her press closer, that made her fingers tighten in his hair.
When she broke the kiss, she was breathing hard, her forehead pressed to his, her eyes closed.
"Riley?"
"Yeah?"
"I think I want to stay in bed with you forever."
He laughed, a quiet, surprised sound. "That's a long time."
"I know." She opened her eyes, and they were soft, warm, full of the gold morning light. "But I think I could do it. I think I could stay right here, with your hand on my chest and your heartbeat under my ear, and never leave."
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, then her nose, then the corner of her mouth. "We have the farmer's market," he said. "Peaches. Too much bread."
"We have hours," she reminded him.
"Hours," he agreed.
She settled back against him, her head finding its place in the hollow of his shoulder, her hand returning to its spot over his heart. His hand stayed where it was, on her chest, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the warmth of her skin, the small, sacred fact of her staying.
The clock ticked. 7:08 now. The gold light had deepened, warming the sheets, warming her skin, warming the small space between them where their breath mingled and their heartbeats found a shared rhythm. The lamp was still burning, but it was a ghost now, a pale echo of the night that was already fading.
"Hey, babe?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For letting me be scared with you." Her fingers curled into his shirt, gripping the fabric like she was anchoring herself to the moment. "For not making me pretend I'm not."
He tightened his arm around her. "I'm scared too. All the time. I'm scared I'm going to do something wrong, say something wrong, be something wrong. But I'm not scared of you. I've never been scared of you."
She was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: "Can I tell you something?"
"Anything."
"I've been in love with you for two years." The words came out in a rush, like she'd been holding them back and they'd finally broken through. "I know I told you before, but I don't think you heard it. I don't think you understood what I meant. I've been in love with you since the first time you made me laugh, since the first time you looked at me like I was a person instead of a performance. And I thought—I thought I was going to have to live with that. With loving you and never telling you. With watching you fall in love with someone else and pretending I was happy for you."
"Jess—"
Her name came out of him like a breath he'd been holding since the first time she'd laughed at something he said, that night at the house party when she was doing an impression of their professor and he'd snorted coffee through his nose. She'd looked at him then, really looked, and he'd felt seen in a way that terrified him.
"Let me finish," she said, and her voice was steady now, sure in a way it hadn't been a minute ago. "Because I've practiced this speech in my head about a hundred times, and if I don't say it all now, I'm going to lose my nerve and we'll be back to me pretending I'm fine with just being your friend."
He closed his mouth. His hand was still on her chest, her heart still beating under his palm, and he couldn't bring himself to move it. She didn't seem to want him to.
"I watched you with Inde," she said. "And I was jealous. God, I was so jealous. But I was also—I was happy for you. Because you looked at her the way I always wanted you to look at me. And I thought, if you can look at someone like that, then I want to be someone who deserves that look. So I worked on myself. I went to auditions I was scared of. I stopped performing so much. I tried to become someone you might actually see."
Her fingers tightened on his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt.
"And then you kissed me. And I thought I was dreaming. And then you said you loved me, and I thought I was going to die right there, because I'd wanted that for so long and I didn't know how to be the person who got it."
He opened his mouth, but she pressed her fingers to his lips, the same gesture she'd used earlier, and he fell silent.
"I'm not telling you this because I need you to say it back again," she said. "I'm telling you because I need you to know what it means. That I'm not just staying because I got evicted and I had nowhere else to go. I'm staying because I chose you. I've been choosing you for two years, and I'm going to keep choosing you, every single day, for as long as you'll let me."
The words settled into his chest like stones dropped into deep water. He felt them sink, felt the weight of them, felt the stillness they left behind.
The stillness didn't last long. Her heart was still beating under his palm, a steady counterpoint to the silence, and he felt it speed up as the weight of her words pressed down on both of them. He wanted to say something. He wanted to find the words that would match hers, that would tell her what it meant to hear her say she'd been choosing him for two years, that he hadn't known he was being chosen at all.
"I didn't know," he said finally. His voice was rough, scraped clean of everything except the truth. "I didn't know you were choosing me. I thought—I thought I was just the guy in the group, the one who was there, the one who didn't matter that way."
Her fingers pressed against his lips again, gentler this time. "You always mattered, to all of us. You just didn't know it."
He turned his head, kissing the inside of her wrist, feeling the pulse there jump under his mouth. The gold light was fully awake now, flooding through the blinds, catching the dust motes in a slow, lazy dance. The lamp was a pale ghost against it, and he knew he should get up and turn it off, but his hand was still on her chest, and she was still looking at him like he was the only thing in the room worth seeing.
"I don't know how to be the person you've been choosing," he admitted. The words came out before he could shape them, raw and unguarded. "I don't know how to be the guy who deserves that. But I want to learn. I want to learn how to be that for you."
She smiled, and there was something in it that cracked him open—not the theatrical smile she wore for rooms full of people, but the real one, the one that reached her eyes and made them shine.
"You already are," she said. "You've been him the whole time. I just needed you to see it too."
His hand moved on her chest, not consciously, just following the impulse to feel her, to ground himself in the warmth of her body. His thumb found the soft peak beneath the cotton, and she exhaled, a slow, steady breath that loosened something in her shoulders.
"Can I ask you something?" he said.
"Anything."
"What changed? What made you finally tell me?"
She was quiet for a moment, her eyes searching his face. The lamp light caught the dark of her iris, the flecks of gold he'd been noticing all morning, and she looked at him with an honesty that made his chest ache.
"You stopped shrinking," she said. "That's what changed. You've always been this—" she gestured vaguely at him, at the whole of him, "—this gentle giant, this person who makes himself smaller so everyone else can fit. And I loved you for it. I loved how kind you were, how careful. But I didn't think you'd ever let yourself want something for yourself."
He swallowed. "And now?"
"And now you're lying here with your hand on my chest, telling me you want to learn how to be the person I've been choosing." She smiled, soft and slow. "That's not shrinking. That's growing."
He felt the words land in his chest, warm and permanent. His thumb traced the curve of her again, feeling the give of her, the shape of her, and she made a small sound that traveled through his palm and into his blood.
"I want to grow with you," he said. "I want to learn how to take up space. But I don't want to do it alone."
"You're not alone." Her hand came up, covering his, pressing it more firmly against her. "You're never going to be alone again. Not if I have anything to say about it."
He kissed her then. Not the slow, searching kiss of the early morning, but something deeper, something that carried the weight of everything she'd just said and everything he couldn't find words for. She kissed him back like she meant it, her fingers threading through his hair, her body arching into his touch.
When they broke apart, they were both breathing hard, and the gold light had shifted, catching the edge of her jaw, the curve of her neck, the small pulse beating at her throat.
"We should probably get up," she said, her voice rough. "The farmer's market—"
"We have hours," he reminded her.
"Hours," she agreed. "But if we stay here much longer, I'm not going to want to leave this bed at all."
He smiled, slow and warm. "That doesn't sound like a problem."
She laughed, a bright, surprised sound that vibrated through her chest and into his palm. "You're impossible."
"I'm learning."
She kissed the corner of his mouth, then pulled back, looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Fond. Curious. A little bit awed.
"I meant what I said," she told him. "Every word. I've been choosing you for two years, and I'm not going to stop."
He felt the words settle into his bones, solid and grounding. "I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to deserve that."
"You already do."
The clock ticked. 7:14. The gold light had reached the foot of the bed, warming the sheets, warming her skin, warming the small space between them where their breath mingled and their heartbeats found a shared rhythm. The lamp was still burning, but it was a ghost now, a pale echo of the night that was already fading.
"Hey, babe?" she said, her voice soft.
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad it's you."
"Glad what's me?"
"Everything." She pressed her palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under her hand. "I'm glad it's you I get to be scared with. I'm glad it's you I get to grow with. I'm glad it's you."
He tightened his arm around her, pulling her closer, feeling the warmth of her body against his. "I'm glad it's you too."
She settled back against him, her head finding its place in the hollow of his shoulder, her hand returning to its spot over his heart. His hand stayed where it was, on her chest, feeling the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, the warmth of her skin, the small, sacred fact of her staying.
The morning stretched open in front of them, full of peaches and bread and the slow, patient work of learning each other. And for the first time in his life, Riley didn't feel the urge to shrink. He felt the urge to stay.
Her fingers curled into his shirt, and she pressed a kiss to his collarbone. "I love you," she murmured, the words half-lost in his skin.
"I love you too," he said, and it was easy now. Natural. Like breathing.
The lamp finally flickered and went out, its bulb spent, and the room was filled with nothing but the gold light of the morning, the warmth of their bodies, and the quiet, steady promise of everything they were still learning to become.