Chapter Twenty-Three | This Morning, Still Ours
I woke up a few times during the night, each time reaching out—just to see if he was still there.
He was. Every time.
He looked different in sleep. Still. Soft. The restlessness that normally clung to him like a second skin was gone. No sarcasm, no offhand jokes, no eye rolls. Just peace. Just breath.
I watched him in the quiet, almost afraid to disturb it.
It felt rare. A glimpse into something he never showed me while awake.
And each time I stirred, I leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. He never fully woke, but his arms would tighten around me, drawing me in, like some deeper version of him knew I was trying to leave and wouldn’t let me.
In those moments, I let myself believe.
That maybe he felt it too.
That maybe he wanted to stay.
But morning eventually came—soft light spilling through the sheer curtains, crawling across tangled sheets and bare shoulders.
I stirred again, reaching over to where he had been.
Empty.
My heart dropped for a beat, until the sound of running water reached my ears.
The shower.
Relief bloomed and quickly turned into something else—urgency. He was leaving today. This was the last morning. I couldn’t let it pass without one more moment.
I got up quietly, letting the covers fall away. As I crossed the room, my bare feet padded across the cold floor, grounding me in a moment that already felt like a memory.
Through the steam-blurred glass, I could see him. Back turned, water running over his head and down his body. There was something vulnerable about the way he stood—unguarded in a way he never let himself be when fully aware.
I stepped into the bathroom and slipped off the thin pajama I wore, setting it aside. Quietly, I opened the glass door and stepped inside.
My hands slid around his waist, resting gently at first—testing.
He let out a low breath, somewhere between amusement and surprise.
“Good morning,” he murmured.
I pressed myself against his back, my lips brushing over the line of his shoulder. He reached for me slowly, turning, hands moving to my waist, his forehead resting against mine. Neither of us spoke for a moment.
The water streamed around us, but it was the silence—the closeness—that mattered.
He leaned down, his lips finding the curve of my neck, and I sighed quietly, my fingers trailing along his back, memorizing the feel of him.
There was no rush in our touch. No performance.
Just familiarity. Just presence.
He held me close, like maybe this meant something he didn’t know how to name. And I let myself believe, for just a little longer, that this morning could stretch forever.
But it couldn’t.
Because he had to leave.
And the clock was ticking.
I felt it even as I leaned into him, even as he kissed me again. This wasn’t forever. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
But this morning was still ours.
And that would have to be enough.
