The days that followed felt like floating. Everything with Maddy had settled into a rhythm—texts in the morning, long calls at night, spontaneous walks and moments that always felt too short. And in between all of that, the quiet feeling that something was building. A closeness that had grown not just from time, but from trust.
It wasn't rushed. It wasn't pressured. But it was there.
I'd never felt this kind of closeness before—not just physical, but emotional. The way Maddy looked at me like I was the center of his storm. The way he listened. The way he didn't shy away from who he used to be, and never made me feel less for who I was.
That's when I knew.
I wanted to give myself to him—completely.
So I planned something. Not extravagant, not loud. Just... us.
I cleaned my room until it felt like a different space. I lit a few candles—not too many—and tucked away a playlist of songs we'd accidentally claimed as ours. I didn't tell him the details. I just told him to come over in the evening. "Dress comfortably," I texted, heart pounding.
When he arrived, I greeted him at the door with a smile and eyes that probably gave it all away.
"What's going on?" he asked with a grin, noticing the candles, the music, the soft edges of the room. His hand found mine.
"Nothing," I whispered. "Just... stay."
We sat, we laughed, we talked like always. But the silence in between was heavier now. Expectant. Kind. His gaze wandered more often, his fingers lingering a little longer on mine.
I reached for his face first, brushing his cheek with my thumb.
He paused.
"You sure?" he asked, voice low and quiet—like he was afraid of the answer.
I nodded. "I want this. With you. Only you."
And when I kissed him, it wasn't about rushing forward—it was about being exactly where we were supposed to be.
Everything after that happened slowly. Carefully. Maddy held me like I was something precious, something breakable. He asked with his eyes before every motion, every shift, and I answered with mine.
And yes, I had prepared—I had brought safety, tucked away in the drawer beside my bed. Because this moment mattered. Because I mattered.
When we finally lay tangled together, skin to skin, breath slowing, my head on his chest—I felt more than loved.
I felt seen.
And in that stillness, in the hush of flickering candlelight and quiet heartbeats, I understood something: this wasn't about giving something up.
It was about choosing someone—with everything I had.
And for the first time in my life, that choice felt safe.