Page 94 of Between Here and There

But now, here I am, my body humming with the aftershocks of what just happened.

And she’s still here. I watch Emily’s bare back as the sunlight filters through the blinds, making her look like a sculpture in a museum.

Last night was unbelievable. Saying Emily and I had sex doesn’t sound fitting enough. Because it wasn’t just sex. It was passion. It was tenderness. Connection. It was… love? I never thought I’d be the kind of person to use the termmade lovebefore. The wordlovealone feels strange. But that’s what we did. We made love. I’ve never experienced anything like that before. Never experienced anything like her before.

Emily shifts, and she turns her head to face me. She’s still lying on her stomach, but her eyes open a little bit, and I catch a glimpse of a soft smile.

“Good morning,” she murmurs, her voice low and sleep-rough. Damn. Her morning voice, half-groggy, still manages to be sexy as hell. It makes me want to pull her close and do it all over again.

“I was right,” I say, my voice thick with affection and that playful edge I can’t quite hide. “I knew that rose tattoo went way down.”

She glances at me over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve wondered?” she asks, her tone teasing but soft, like she’s amused by my admission.

“Wondered,” I reply. “Daydreamed. Imagined. Inappropriately thought of at random parts of the day. All that.” I trail my finger down her back, stopping just where the ink disappears, feeling the warmth of her skin underneath my touch. Her body shivers slightly at the contact, and I can’t help but smile. This is a whole new feeling—this kind of closeness. It’s nothing like I expected, but so much more than I could have ever hoped for.

“Yeah?” she says, her voice quieter now, a hint of something vulnerable behind the teasing. She shifts again, pulling herself onto her side to face me. The light catches her hair, messy and wild from sleep, and I suddenly realize how much I love that—how much I love the way she looks, even in this quiet, post-intimacy moment.

“Yeah,” I say again, and I can’t stop looking at her. Something is very wrong with me. Or maybe something is very, very right.

The rest of the day drags on like a blur of thoughts and distractions. I can’t help but replay everything that happened between us over and over in my head. The way she looked, the way she felt, the sound of her laugh, even down to her quiet snoring. It’s like I cracked open a door to something I never expected, and now I can’t stop thinking about what’s on the other side.

At work, I’m less focused than usual. I find myself zoning out during meetings and mindlessly typing through emails. At one point, I even told our welder to mix the cement. Yep. There are even moments I catch myself grinning like an idiot. I can’t stop it. I don’t even want to.

When I arrive at home, a beautiful sight greets me. Emily’s sitting on the couch, her floral throw pillow resting on her lap as she works intently on her laptop. She’s so absorbed in whatever she’s doing that she doesn’t even notice me walk in. Her hair is up in a messy bun, a few stray tendrils escaping to frame her face, and she’s wearing her pajamas. Her bare feet rest on the edge of the couch, and she looks so comfortable, so… right. Seeing her here like this, in my space, makes me feel a warm, quiet contentment. She belongs here. She fits.

I don’t even think, I just act. I stride over to her, moving without hesitation, and plant a soft kiss on her head.

“I was just about to sleep,” she says with a yawn, stretching a little.

“I can see that,” I reply, leaning against the back of the couch, watching her in that sleepy, casual way that makes my heart skip.

“I’m just finishing something up,” she says, a little sheepish.

I give her time to finish her task while I take a quick shower to shake off the lingering fatigue of the day. When I return to the living room, I expect to find her still working. But instead, she’s asleep, slumped against the couch with her laptop still on her lap. Her head is resting at an odd angle, her mouth slightly parted, and she looks so peaceful that I almost feel guilty for waking her.

Moving carefully, I shut the laptop and lift the pillow from her lap, not wanting to disturb her too much. I’m about to scoop her up, carry her to her room, but just as I’m bending down, her eyes flutter open, and I freeze.

We’re inches apart now, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body, and my breath hitches.

“I can walk, thank you,” she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep.

I smile, fighting back a laugh, and nod. “Okay.”

She slowly pushes herself up, her limbs heavy with drowsiness, and makes her way toward her room. But just before she disappears through the door to the guest room, I call out.

“Wait,” I say, my voice unexpectedly tight. I take a step toward her, heart pounding in my chest. “Can you… uh… stay with me again?”

She looks at me for a long moment, her expression softening as she takes in the uncertainty in my voice. Then, with a small smile that makes my heart trip in my chest, she nods. “Okay.”

She doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t press. She just agrees, and that simple act feels like everything.

We don’t talk. We don’t need to. The silence feels comforting, not awkward. She curls up beside me, and she drifts to sleep instantly as I hug her from behind and bury my face in the crook of her neck. The bed feels different tonight, not just because she’s in it, but because of the weight of everything I’ve been feeling.

I can’t stop myself from asking the question that’s been gnawing at me for hours.

Am I in love with Emily?

I mean, yes, I want to be more than friends. I want to date her and be with her. But is this it? Love? Could this be the real thing? Do I—me, the guy who used to avoid anything resembling feelings like they were a plague—love her? Is she the one I want to spend every waking day with, the face I want to see first thing every morning, sleepy-eyed and radiant? Is she the one who changes everything I’ve ever believed in and stood for? Is she the person who makes me want to be better—not because she asks, but because she deserves it?

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