I wake up to sunlight and the weight of her in my arms.
Somehow, during the night, we shifted. I’m lying on my back now, stretched out on the couch that’s too small for one person let alone two.
Stevie is half on top of me, her arm across my chest, her leg hooked over mine, her face pressed into my neck. She’s wrapped around me like she was afraid I’d disappear in the night.
I don’t move. I barely breathe. I just lie there, feeling her heartbeat against my ribs, her breath warm on my throat, and I let myself want this.
Not just now. Not just this week. Forever.
I want to wake up like this every day. Want her weight on my chest and her hair in my face and the soft sounds she makes when she’s not quite awake yet. Want to be the person she reaches for in the dark, the one she trusts enough to fall asleep on.
I want to stay.
The thought is terrifying. I’ve built my entire career on the opposite, on being able to leave, to let go, to do the job and move on. That’s what makes me good at this. The ability to care without getting attached.
She stirs. Shifts against me. Her eyes flutter open.
For a second, she doesn’t move. Just lies there, looking up at me, awareness dawning slowly.
“I fell asleep on you,” she says.
“You did.”
“You stayed.”
“I did.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Her hand is still on my chest, right over my heart. “Two more days,” she says.
“I know.”
“And then you leave.”
“Stevie...”
“I’m not asking you to stay.” She sits up slowly, pulling away, and I feel the loss of her warmth like a physical ache. “I know you can’t. I know that’s not how this works. I just...”
She trails off. Looks away.
“Just what?” I ask.
“I just wanted you to know that I wish you could.” She meets my eyes again. “And yeah, I know that’s a lot. I’m apparently collecting men I can’t keep. But you’re different. You’re...” She stops. Starts again. “You make me feel like maybe Zoey Carter could actually be a person worth being. And I didn’t think that was possible.”
I sit up. Take her hand. “I’m going to figure something out,” I say. “More visits. Regular check-ins. I’ll request regional reassignment if I have to. I’m not.” I take a breath. “I’m not going to just disappear from your life. I refuse to.”
“Your job…”
“My job is not more important than this.” The words come out fierce. Certain. “My ex-wife said I was impossible to know because I was always leaving. Always somewhere else. I let that happen. I let the job become an excuse for not being present.” I squeeze her hand. “I don’t want to do that again. Not with you.”
Her eyes are wet. “Saul...”
“I’m not asking for anything,” I add quickly. “I know you’re grieving. I know there are other people you care about. I’m not trying to replace anyone or rush anything. I just need you to know that I’m here. Even when I’m not physically here. I’m here.”
She doesn’t say anything. She just leans forward and kisses me. Soft. Slow. A promise more than a passion.
When she pulls back, she’s smiling. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”
We move to the room. I lie in her bed, our bed, maybe, for whatever time we have left, with her curled against my side. We haven’t done more than kiss. But we’re close.
