I've slept in penthouses.
Presidential suites. Glass-roofed villas in Santorini. Private jets with seats that flatten smoother than most beds.
But this?
This stiff couch in her studio…
The smell of vanilla candle wax and damp city air…
This is the most real sleep I've had in months.
Not deep.
Not peaceful.
But real.
I don't remember closing my eyes.
Don't remember letting myself relax.
But something about her sitting just a few feet away, curling up near the window in that old cardigan, her breath steady and slow—
It grounded me.
She didn't say goodnight.
Didn't tell me she forgave me.
She just let me stay.
And somehow… that was louder than any conversation we could've had.
I didn't dare look at her while she was sleeping. I couldn't.
If I did, I might've said something reckless.
Might've asked her to move to the couch with me.
Might've pulled her into me and ruined every ounce of trust I was just beginning to earn back.
So I stared at the ceiling.
And let the silence keep me in check.
---
I wake to the smell of coffee.
My back aches. One of my legs is asleep. The blanket she gave me barely covers my chest. But none of that matters.
Because the second I sit up and glance across the room—
She's there.
Back turned, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, hair messy and loose now, standing barefoot at the small kitchenette, pouring two mugs of coffee.
She poured two.
It's small.
But it's not nothing.
She doesn't look at me when she speaks.
"There's coffee."
Her voice is soft. Guarded. Still morning-hoarse.
"Thanks," I say, trying to keep my voice from breaking with too much… everything.
I rise, push the blanket off, and walk over—bare feet against the cold concrete floor, heartbeat heavy in my chest.
She hands me the mug without a word.
We stand beside each other, staring out the tall studio window.
The city looks grey. Muted. Half-awake.
She brings the mug to her lips, still not looking at me.
I want to say something.
Anything.
But I don't know what won't ruin this quiet.
So I settle for this.
Just us. Side by side. Breathing the same morning.
---
I glance around.
The studio is so her.
Unfinished sketches tacked to the walls. Half-drunk tea cups beside spools of ribbon. A mannequin draped in the skeleton of a wedding dress.
This is the part of her life I never saw before.
The part she never invited me into.
The part I didn't try hard enough to understand.
Until now.
She finally looks at me.
Just briefly.
Our eyes meet over the rims of our mugs.
She doesn't smile.
But she doesn't look away.
And that… feels like something.
I nod slightly.
"Thanks for not kicking me out," I say, voice low.
"You didn't give me much reason not to."
I nod again. Accept it. I deserve it.
"I'll try to do better," I say. "I don't know how, yet. But I'm here. And I want to figure it out. With you."
She sips again.
Then sets her cup down.
The clink is soft. But final.
"I'm not ready to believe you."
Her honesty stings more than anger would.
But I respect it.
"I know."
I set my cup beside hers.
Then step back.
Give her space.
Let her breathe.
Because if I've learned anything… it's that wanting her isn't enough.
I have to earn her now.
Moment by moment.
Word by word.
And today was the first one.