Chapter 59 I want you moved
Allegedly, joy is not loud.
It’s often a small, almost forgettable moment that later becomes the memory you’d give anything to relive. The happiest versions of us rarely realize they are the happiest. Awareness tends to arrive late, like grief’s quieter twin.
I’ve heard that before. I’ve believed it.
But right now, lying here in the dark, I can’t help but disagree. Because I know....I know, with a certainty that feels almost frightening, that this is the happiest I’ve ever been. And I’m aware of it, painfully, beautifully aware. That’s why I’m taking it all in. Cataloguing it and pressing it into memory like a flower between pages.
So when the time comes, if it comes, for me to want to relive this, I will recall every detail.
Michael is asleep behind me, his arm draped over my waist, holding me against him like I might dissolve if he loosens his grip. His skin is warm against my back. Solid and real. His breathing is slow and steady, fanning softly over the back of my neck. I can feel the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the rhythm of it anchoring me.
He smells like sleep and something distinctly him ...clean, warm, grounding. It makes my chest ache in a way that isn’t painful.
I fell asleep earlier. After we were spent and tangled and quiet. I didn’t mean to. I wanted to stay awake with him, to stretch the night thinner and thinner until morning forced us apart. But exhaustion won. It’s been winning a lot lately.
He let me rest. When I woke again, it was to his voice... gentle but firm, telling me it was around nine and I hadn’t eaten. Hadn’t taken my meds. I remember trying to burrow deeper into the pillow, trying to negotiate with sleep like it was a person I could convince. I was too tired, I still am.
But he had already ordered something. Grilled chicken and brown rice, steamed vegetables, a fresh juice I barely tasted but drank anyway because he handed it to me with that look. The one that says he cares too much to let me ignore myself.
So I sat up even though my body protested. Even though the exhaustion outweighed the hunger, and I ate.
Afterwards, I took the meds.... the routine I hate. The small, daily admission that my body isn't cooperating with me. But I hated it a little less tonight.
Because Michael was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hand resting on my thigh, not squeezing, not hovering.... just there. Like he was saying ‘you’re not doing this alone’ without actually needing to say it. When I finished, he told me to go back to sleep while he cleaned up.
I didn’t.
I lay there in the dim room, eyes half-closed, listening to the rustle of paper bags. The clink of dishes. The running water. Every sound proof that he was still here. I listened almost obsessively, like if the apartment went silent for too long, I’d lose him. I didn’t want to open my eyes and find emptiness.
Eventually he came back. Slid into bed and wrapped himself around me again without hesitation, like it was instinct.
Now my alarm reads 4:03 a.m.
The room is quiet except for his breathing and the faint hum of the city outside. I can feel Ember curled at the foot of the bed, her small body a warm weight against the blankets. The normalcy of it, my cat asleep at our feet, a man holding me in the dark, makes something inside me soften.
It’s so ordinary.
And that’s what makes it extraordinary.
For once, I’m not thinking about endings. I’m not thinking about what the universe doesn’t care about. I’m not thinking about time or inevitability or loss.
I’m here. And I know I’m here. Joy in this moment is not quiet. It’s a steady, undeniable presence in my chest. A certainty. If happiness is fleeting, then I will memorize this version of it. And the way, for once, I do not feel alone.
I suddenly feel him shift behind me. It’s subtle, the mattress adjusting, the quiet change in his breathing, but my body registers it instantly. I stay still, not wanting to disturb whatever fragile thing this moment is.
Then his hand moves.It slides slowly from my waist, up... up.... until his palm rests flat against my chest. Right over my heart. I stop breathing. It’s such a light touch, barely pressure, but it feels electric. Like every nerve in my body reroutes to that single point beneath his hand. I’m acutely aware of my heartbeat, suddenly loud, suddenly traitorous.
His fingers shift slightly, adjusting, as if he’s measuring something. Counting. Listening. Then his hand drifts higher, thumb brushing along the column of my throat, settling just beneath my jaw where my pulse lives. I exhale slowly.
“Are you checking if I’m still alive?” I murmur, voice thick with sleep but edged with amusement. “Because I am. Very much so.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leans in. His lips press softly against my neck.... not urgent or demanding. The kind of kiss that feels less like desire and more like a claim. My fingers curl into the sheets.
“There’s a myth,” he says quietly against my skin, voice still rough from sleep, “that when two people who feel deeply for each other sleep wrapped around each other, their heartbeats try to sync.”
His hand slides back down to my chest, resting there again, steady.
“I’m just confirming,” he continues, softer now, “...that yours is at least attempting the effort.”
The corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it. “And?” I ask, turning my head slightly so I can see him. “What’s the verdict?”
His fingers press slightly more firmly, as if to emphasize the evidence beneath them.
“It’s not syncing,” he continues, voice low and thoughtful. “It’s accelerating.”
There’s something pleased and contemplative in his tone. “I think I prefer that.” His thumb traces absent-minded patterns, slow but intentional enough to make my breath shift.
“Synchronization feels predictable and neat.” He kisses my neck again. “But acceleration.... that’s momentum. It means we’re affecting each other in real time. That the presence alone is enough to alter the rhythm. That feels more poetic to me. I don’t want you calm, I want you moved.”
I turn in his arms until I’m facing him.
The movement is unhurried, like we have nowhere else to be , like the world has agreed to pause for us. His hand slips from my chest to my waist as I shift, and I slide my own hands to his, grounding myself in him.
He looks different this close in the dim early light. Softer. The sharp edges dulled by sleep and whatever he just confessed against my skin.
“Good morning,” I murmur.
His mouth curves almost instantly. “Oh, it definitely is,” his voice is still rough, but threaded with something warm and unmistakable.
I huff a quiet breath against his lips. “Are you staying?”
There’s a low hum in his throat as he considers it. His hand tightens slightly at my waist.
“I’ve gotta drop by the office later,” he admits. “Briefly. In and out.”
My grip shifts unconsciously, like I’m calculating how long that means. He notices, of course he does.
“But I’ll come back,” he adds, softer now. Something in my chest loosens at that. He brushes his nose lightly against mine
“You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
“Good,” I whisper quietly. And for once, I don’t overthink what comes next.