15. Finding Equilibrium 2 Too long #4
“Okay,” he says. “Practically? We need a routine that makes sense. For all three of us. You’re not the only one with a life that has moving parts.”
“Wow,” I say. “Look at you acknowledging my adulthood.”
He nudges me lightly.
“Shut up and plan with me,” he says.
I smile into his skin.
“Fine,” I say.
He shifts so we’re facing each other, still close, the sheet draped over both of us.
“You have daycare drop-offs and pick-ups, work hours, family stuff,” he says. “I have classes, practice, games, and group projects with idiots. If we don’t plan, we’re just going to keep missing each other and getting resentful.”
“Agreed,” I say.
“So,” he says. “Non-negotiables. We do at least two real calls a week. Not just texts. Actual conversations. No multitasking while we talk, unless you’re literally feeding Liam and can’t help it.”
“Two a week,” I repeat. “What about the rest of the days?”
“Texts, voice notes, whatever,” he says. “But those two nights, I want us both to show up on purpose. No scrolling, no doing dishes mid-call, no cutting it short because someone from my dorm wants to play video games.”
“That last one feels pointed,” I say.
“It is,” he says.
“Okay,” I say. “Two nights. Which nights?”
“We can adjust based on our weeks,” he says. “But we start with Sundays and Wednesdays. Sunday to reset. Wednesday to check in mid-week.”
I think about it. About daycare rhythms and Nexus projects and how exhausted I usually am on Fridays. Sunday and Wednesday could work.
“Fine,” I say. “Sunday and Wednesday. What about visits?”
“I can’t afford to fly home every month,” he says. “But I can aim for every other, if I pick up more hours and stop wasting money on takeout.”
“Every other month is a lot,” I say. “I don’t want you to burn out.”
“I’m already tired,” he says. “At least this way I’m tired for something that matters.”
“It all matters,” I say.
He studies me for a moment.
“Okay,” he says. “Then we decide together. We look at your big deadlines and my big exams, and we pick weekends that don’t wreck either of us. We save for them. We plan around them instead of winging it and hoping it works.”
“That would be new,” I say.
He smiles faintly.
“Yeah,” he says. “I’m trying to get better at the boring parts of love.”
“The boring parts are where most of it lives,” I say.
He reaches out and brushes a damp strand of hair from my forehead.
“You deserve someone who shows up in those parts too,” he says.
“You’re working on it,” I say.
“I am,” he says. “And if I start slipping, I want you to call me on it. Not just swallow it until you’re quietly pulling away.”
“I wasn’t quiet,” I say.
“You were quieter,” he says. “For you, that’s loud.”
I huff out a small laugh.
“Fine,” I say.
“We also need time that’s about us,” he says. “Not just co-parenting logistics.”
“You mean like tonight?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. “Not always fancy first-date clone nights. Just… intentional. Even if it’s once a month where you get your mom to take Liam for a few hours and we stay in sweats and eat cheap food and remember we like each other.”
“That sounds nice,” I say.
“I want nice for you,” he says. “Not just survival.”
The word hits me harder than I expect. Survival has been my default setting for so long I almost forgot there was another option.
“We can’t control everything,” I say. “Schedules change. People get sick. Money gets tight.”
“I know,” he says. “We can’t control any of that. But we can control whether we act like teammates or like two people stuck on opposite sides of a problem.”
I nod slowly.
“Teammates,” I say.
“Teammates,” he repeats.
He leans in and kisses my forehead, then my lips, softer this time. The earlier urgency has settled into something steadier—still warm, but anchored.
“Reid,” I say against his mouth.
“Yeah?” he asks.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?” he asks.
“For coming home,” I say. “For the letter. For trying. For wanting more than the highlight reel.”
He looks at me like he wants to argue that he should have been doing this all along, then swallows it.
“You’re welcome,” he says instead. “I’m not done trying.”
I believe him. Not blindly. Not in some fairytale way. But I believe he means it right now, and I’m willing to see what happens if we both keep choosing this instead of waiting for it to magically fix itself.
He pulls me back against his chest, and I let my eyes drift closed. The plans we just made are simple. They won’t protect us from every storm. There will still be missed calls and late nights and unexpected bills and jealousy and people who don’t understand why we’re still fighting for this.
But lying here, wrapped in his warmth and the echo of his words, it feels like we finally have a blueprint that’s more than just getting through the week.
It feels like equilibrium isn’t some perfect, unshakable state.
It’s something you keep reaching for, adjusting again and again as life tilts. We’re nowhere near perfect.
But tonight, with his heartbeat steady under my cheek and his hand resting over my hip like he has no intention of letting go, I let myself believe that maybe—we’re finally learning how to stand.