Glory's eyes fluttered open to soft morning light pouring through the half-open blinds. For a moment, she felt suspended between two worlds — the warmth of the blanket tangled around her legs, the chill of her own heartbeat thudding too fast for this hour.
She turned to the empty side of the bed. It was still warm, the sheets wrinkled. She could smell him — that faint scent of cologne mixed with his skin and the soap he liked.
She smiled sleepily, pushing her hair off her face. But that little ache in her chest wouldn't leave her alone.
"David?" Her voice was soft, almost shy in the quiet room. No answer.
She sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. The sound of soft clinking came from outside the bedroom door — a plate, maybe. She smiled despite herself.
She called again, louder, teasing this time. "David! Where are you? Did you run away from me in your sleep?"
The door opened just as she finished the question. David stepped inside, barefoot, shirtless, carrying a tray balanced expertly in one hand. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, and his sleepy eyes locked on hers like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.
"I made you breakfast," he said in that soft, deep voice that still made her stomach flutter after all this time. He stepped closer, eyes warm, smile lazy and boyish. "Good morning, my love."
Glory couldn't help it — she giggled like a girl in her first romance. "Awwn… thank you, babe." She pulled the blanket up to her chin, pretending to hide her smile.
David set the tray on the nightstand and sat at the edge of the bed, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his bare skin. He just sat there, staring at her, his eyes tracing the lines of her face like he'd never seen her before.
"What?" she asked, cheeks pink.
He shook his head slowly, smile fading into something more serious. "I don't really know how to say it," he murmured, his voice low and rough around the edges. "I keep trying to find the right words, but… I don't know how to tell you what you mean to me."
She reached out, her fingertips brushing his jaw. "You don't have to say it. You kinda already did."
He leaned in, forehead resting against hers. "I love you."
Her heart twisted painfully — sweet and sharp all at once. "I love you too."
Their lips met — warm, slow, a kiss that felt like a promise and a confession all at once. When they pulled back, Glory kept her eyes closed, trying to hold onto the moment before the guilt crept back in.
David brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, his touch feather-light. "Thank you for saving me," he whispered. "I was trapped in a dark tunnel, and you were the light at the end of it."
Her throat tightened. Don't ruin this, a voice in her head begged. But she couldn't stop herself. "How can something that feels so good feel so wrong?" she asked, voice cracking.
David frowned, shaking his head slightly. "It doesn't feel wrong."
She pulled back a little, searching his eyes. "It is wrong, David. She was my best friend. Cynthia—"
He flinched at the name. She felt the air shift, the warmth flicker. But then his eyes softened again. He pressed his finger to her lips. "Don't. Not now. She's gone, Glory. She's been gone for three years."
She pulled her knees closer to her chest, her bare shoulders trembling. "But I feel like she's still here, David. Every time I close my eyes, I see her. I hear her laugh. I feel her looking at me."
David cupped her face in both hands, forcing her to meet his steady gaze. "Glory… she's not here. She's not coming back. We can't keep dying with her. You saved me. You brought me back. That's not wrong."
She closed her eyes, a single tear slipping down her cheek. "Then why does it feel like it is?"
He kissed the tear away. "Because you're good. You have a good heart. But I don't care what anyone says — you saved me, and I love you for that."
Glory let out a shaky laugh, trying to lighten the mood. "You're so dramatic."
"I'm a writer. I'm allowed to be dramatic."
She rolled her eyes. "You're a terrible writer."
He gasped, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. "You wound me, woman!"
She giggled despite the heaviness between them. "I finished your book, by the way. Collection of Insanity. Still hate it."
He smirked, leaning back a little to look at her properly. "You hate all my books."
"I do. But I love you."
He kissed her again — deeper this time, a slow burn that made her toes curl under the blanket. When he pulled back, his eyes were dancing with mischief. "Well, at least you like my cooking."
Glory made a dramatic face, eyeing the tray on the nightstand. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."
He narrowed his eyes at her, playfully offended. "Oh really? Try it, then."
She crawled across the bed, pulling the tray closer. It held pancakes stacked neatly, scrambled eggs, sliced strawberries, and two cups of steaming tea. She picked up a strawberry, inspecting it dramatically. "You sure you didn't poison this?"
He raised an eyebrow. "Ladies first."
She popped the berry into her mouth, biting into the sweet fruit with exaggerated suspicion. He watched her with that lazy grin she hated loving so much.
"Well?" he asked.
She chewed thoughtfully, then gave him a look that made him laugh out loud. "Let's just say… if I had to pick between your books and your cooking, I'd read your books."
"But you hate my books!" he said, scandalized.
"Exactly." She threw a berry at him, laughing when he dodged it and tackled her back onto the bed.
They dissolved into giggles, the tray nearly tipping over as David hovered over her, his hair falling into his eyes. He kissed her nose, her cheeks, her jaw — soft, playful pecks that made her squirm.
"Stop," she laughed. "You'll make me drop your masterpiece breakfast."
He nipped at her neck. "I'll make you something better."
She pushed him away, breathless. "Behave."
David grabbed a fork and stabbed a piece of pancake, holding it out to her. She raised an eyebrow but took the bite, chewing dramatically.
He leaned closer, whispering in her ear, "How is it?"
She swallowed, grinned. "Better than your poetry."
He fake-gasped again, pressing his forehead to hers. "You're impossible."
"And you love it."
They fed each other, talking about nothing and everything — about the new book David hadn't finished, about the garden Glory wanted to plant but never did. For a while, it almost felt normal. Almost.
But then Glory's gaze drifted to the dresser across the room — the same dresser that still held a drawer full of Cynthia's silk scarves. The same dresser she'd opened last night, running her fingers over old memories she could never throw away.
David saw her staring and reached for her hand. He squeezed it gently. "Don't," he whispered. "Stay here. Stay with me."
Glory forced a smile, bringing his fingers to her lips. "I'm here."
But even as she said it, her heart thudded a warning she couldn't name.
Later, when David carried the empty tray back to the kitchen, Glory slipped out of bed. She crossed the room barefoot, wrapped in one of David's shirts. She stood in front of the dresser, her fingertips brushing the brass handle of that drawer.
She opened it. Cynthia's perfume — unopened — sat next to a folded silk scarf, pale blue. The scent hit her like a memory. For a moment, she could almost hear Cynthia laughing in the kitchen, teasing her for stealing David's t-shirts, hugging her from behind.
"Don't ruin this," Glory whispered to herself. But she couldn't ignore the cold shiver crawling up her spine.
Somewhere in the hallway, a floorboard creaked — David, probably.
She turned to close the drawer but froze.
There — tucked into the corner — was an envelope. An old, yellowed envelope with Cynthia's name written on it in David's handwriting.
Glory's breath caught in her throat. She reached for it with trembling fingers.
In the distance, David's voice drifted in, warm and carefree. "Glory? Come back to bed, babe!"
Glory's fingers brushed the envelope.
She pulled her hand back.
But the secrets between them were already awake.