It is bedtime. The dishes are in the sink, the alarms are set, the doors are locked. Water drips from my hair onto one of his concert t-shirts. His skin is fresh from the shower. The leftover scents of our conditioners and soaps blend, tropical coconut, ocean breeze, brown sugar, lavender mist. He smooths the hair on top of my head and kisses me there before lying fully back. Pastel blankets and white sheets cover us. My right thigh is secure in his left hand where my leg is draped above his hips. I close my eyes. The streetlight outside the window turns grey as it filters through the blinds. This is our city. The highways we take to our parent’s houses, the streets we walk to work, the markets that sell us produce, the buildings that watch benevolently over us, the trails we run and bike, the restaurants and cafes we frequent.

He rests his right hand on the small of my bare back. I say whatever comes to mind. My voice is soft and open. There’s a brightness in my lulling tone, like that of a child, fearlessly content. I say, this is our house. I say, remember when you used to wait for me in the train station. I say, I used to wear those same jeans every day. The light-wash ones that my mom wore in high school. I’m going to wear them tomorrow. I say, I love you, and I wrap my arm tight across him. Into my ear he whispers, I love you too. I wonder where I would be right now if on July 21, I hadn’t given in to the gravity and kissed him. I wonder if I would be stronger. I wonder if I would be more independent. I wonder if I could possibly be as happy. It is a tenuous balance, loving so much.

He is falling asleep. I can tell because my ear is against his chest. His heartbeat is slowing. I trace circles on his waist with the thumb of my right hand. His fingers and limbs twitch slightly, alternately, signaling he is dozing off. I think, don’t leave me. Don’t leave me to be the only one awake. An old habit. The night used to be terrifying. There was no guarantee of morning then, like there is now. I think, no, do. Do leave, for now. Sleep. And his breathing slows fully. His hand softens around my thigh. I place my hand flat on his chest, next to my face. His peace is my peace. I want to kiss him somewhere, but I don’t want to wake him by moving.

Instead, I think of him. I think of the freckles on his little boy face, the tight cut of his brown curls, the approval he seeks from his mom. I think of the smile in his light blue eyes when I get home. I think of how sensitive I am to him, how sensitive he is to me. I think of our words- their giants, forests, and earthquakes- but even more so, their sunsets, promises, and honeybees. I think of his work shirts, his plaid suit jacket, his white socks, his running long-sleeves, his navy underwear, his grey sweatpants. I think of him crying for me, into me, with me; red, puffy, and melting. I think of his key turning in the door. I think of the cold air we brave. I think of touching him, of him touching me. I think of the two forks he uses to flip chicken when he cooks it. I think of the glint in his glasses, the confident line of his jaw. I think of the places we’ve been, beaches and cities and museums and hotels and preserves and restaurants. I think of him driving my car late at night, holding my hand. I think and think and think, all in time with the metronome of his breathing, and somewhere between his book on the table and his lips on my temple, I fall soundly asleep.

– Adva Ryan