16. Rediscovering Love Too long #3
“That you’re carrying a lot,” he says. “That I’m gone most of the time. That you’re doing the brunt of the day-to-day.”
My chest tightens. “Reid?—”
“I’m not upset,” he says quickly. “They’re not saying anything I haven’t thought myself. It just… hits different when other people say it out loud.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t want you feeling like you’re raising him alone.”
“I don’t feel alone,” I say.
He gives me a look—not accusing, just knowing. “Sometimes you do.”
I look down at my hands. “Sometimes,” I admit. “But that’s not because you don’t care. It’s because life is messy.”
He leans back and rests his head on the couch. “Your mom’s right. We’re young. Life’s already moved fast. And I don’t want you to think I’m trying to rush anything.”
“I don’t,” I say. “I know you’re trying to catch up, not pull me somewhere.”
He looks over at me then, eyes soft and a little sad. “You were shining at work today. I’m not jealous—just… aware that I’m not on your level yet.”
“You’re in college,” I say. “That’s your level.”
“I know,” he says. “But sometimes it feels like you’re building a whole career while I’m still writing papers at two in the morning and fighting with a washing machine that hates me.”
I smile a little at that. “Reid, I don’t want you to be me. That’s not what this is.”
“I know,” he says again. “Just being honest.”
“Good,” I say. “We need that.”
He reaches out and takes my hand, tugging me closer until I’m tucked against his side.
His arm comes around my shoulders, warm and familiar.
We sit like that for a long moment, the quiet stretching around us.
My cheek rests against his shoulder, and I can hear his heartbeat—steady, not rushed like last night.
This is a different kind of closeness, one that isn’t trying to fix anything. Just hold it.
“You did great tonight,” I say.
He huffs a small laugh. “Your family is intense.”
“You survived,” I say.
“Barely,” he says.
“You did better than most people,” I say. “Mom likes you. Destiny tolerates you. Hazel thinks we’re a rom-com disaster she gets to narrate. Iris probably forgot your name twice.”
“That sounds accurate,” he says.
“It is,” I say.
He looks down at me again, his thumb brushing my shoulder. “Your mom’s comment about marriage didn’t bother you?”
“It didn’t feel wrong,” I say quietly. “Just… honest.”
“She’s worried,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “She’s been raising us on her own for a long time. She knows what responsibility looks like up close. And she doesn’t want us to jump into anything because it seems romantic.”
His jaw moves once. “Does it seem romantic?”
“Some days,” I say. “Other days it seems like a lot of pressure when we’re just trying to keep up with laundry and bills and daycare emails.”
He doesn’t try to argue. He doesn’t promise things he can’t control. He just nods.
“I’m not in a rush,” he says. “I want us to be stable first. Not perfect. Just… steady.”
“We’re getting there,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says. “We are.”
His fingers find mine, lacing together without effort. My body sinks deeper into the couch, into him.
After a quiet minute, he sighs. “I hate that I only have two more days.”
I swallow down the ache his words bring. “I know.”
“I want more time,” he says. “Real time. Not the scraps between your work events and my study schedule.”
“We’ll get there,” I say. “Not all at once.”
He nods, eyes distant for a moment but not cold. “I just want it to feel like we’re on the same team.”
“We are,” I say, squeezing his hand.
He squeezes back. The quiet settles again—comfortable, soft around the edges. When he leans down to kiss my forehead, the tenderness in it warms me more than last night’s heat did.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
I shift until my legs are stretched out along the couch and my head is on his chest. He pulls the blanket over us and rests his hand on my hip, thumb rubbing slow circles like he’s grounding himself.
“This feels good,” he says quietly.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “It does.”
He kisses the top of my head again. Not trying to start anything. Not trying to fix anything. Just… being here.
I tuck myself closer. “Today was a lot,” I say. “But I think we handled it.”
“We did,” he says. “Not perfectly. But we did.”
“That’s enough for now,” I say.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It is.”
We drift in and out of silence, letting the exhaustion settle into something gentle instead of heavy. After a while, he shifts slightly, voice low and warm.
“I love you,” he says.
The words land differently tonight—not dramatic, not a declaration, not a plea. Just truth.
“I love you too,” I say. “Even when we’re a mess.”
He laughs softly. “Especially then.”
The lamp casts a soft glow across the room, the blanket is warm, his heartbeat is steady under my cheek, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like we’re not fighting the current.
We’re floating. Together. Not fixed. Not flawless.
Just rediscovering something we almost lost. And for tonight, that’s enough.