7. Elise
— ? —
Elise
The Next Day
It rains all day Sunday.
We stay in bed, wrapped in sheets that smell like us, listening to the water stream down the windows. Dominic orders breakfast, bagels and cream cheese and fresh-squeezed orange juice from a place around the corner, and we eat it cross-legged on his mattress, getting crumbs in the sheets.
“This is disgustingly domestic,” I say.
“Is that a complaint?”
“It’s an observation.” I steal a bite of his bagel. “I haven’t done this in years. Just... stayed in bed all day. Doing nothing.”
“Nothing?” He raises an eyebrow. “I seem to remember doing several things this morning.”
I throw a pillow at him.
He catches it, laughing. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I am not-” I catch my reflection in his window. My cheeks are definitely pink. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
I do. For a while.
***
Afterward, with my head on his chest and his fingers tracing patterns on my back, I tell him things I’ve never told anyone.
“I used to dream about buildings,” I say. “Whole neighborhoods in my head. I’d design them in my sketchbook - apartments and parks and housing that people could actually afford to live in. I was going to change the world.”
“What happened?”
“Connor happened.” I trace the edge of his tattoo. “He needed support. The startup was taking off. Someone had to manage the house, the social calendar, the investors’ wives. I told myself I’d get back to architecture eventually. Once things settled down.”
“But things never settled down.”
“There was always another funding round. Another expansion. Another excuse.” I swallow past the lump in my throat. “And then one day I looked up and realized I hadn’t drawn anything in three years. All those neighborhoods in my head - they were just... gone.”
Dominic is quiet for a moment. Then he tilts my chin up, making me meet his eyes.
“They’re not gone,” he says. “They’re still in there. You just need time to find them again.”
“What if I can’t? What if I gave too much away, and there’s nothing left?”
“Then you build something new.” He kisses my forehead. “And I’ll be right here while you do it.”
I’m crying before I know it. Not sad tears - something more complicated. Relief, maybe. Or hope.
“Hey,” he says softly, wiping my cheeks with his thumb. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I just-” I laugh, watery. “I’m not used to this.”
“Used to what?”
“Someone actually listening. Caring about what I want.” I take a shaky breath. “Connor used to get this look when I talked about architecture. Like he was waiting for me to finish so he could move on to something more important. I stopped bringing it up eventually.”
“That’s not-” Dominic stops. I can see him choosing his words carefully. “I’m not going to pretend to understand how he could be so oblivious. How anyone could have you and not want to know every single thing inside your head.”
“Maybe I wasn’t interesting enough.”
“Bullshit.” The word is sharp, certain. “You’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met. Your brain, your dreams, the way you see the world - I could listen to you talk for hours and never get bored.”
“Now who’s being cute?”
“I’m being honest.” He pulls me closer. “Tell me more. About the buildings. The neighborhoods. I want to see what you see.”
So I do.
I tell him about the sustainable housing complex I designed in college, the one my professor said was too ambitious, too idealistic.
About the community center I sketched on napkins during Connor’s investor dinners.
About the thing I dreamed of once: an affordable housing development with a green roof, gardens woven through the courtyards, a place built for the people who’d actually live there instead of the people who’d profit from it.
Dominic listens to all of it. Asks questions. Gets excited when I describe the technical details.
“You should build that,” he says when I finish. “The housing thing. The green roof.”
“That’s not how architecture works. You need clients, funding, a developer who actually cares about more than the bottom line-”
“So find them.” He shrugs like it’s simple. “You’re brilliant. You have connections now - the company shares, the settlement. Use them.”
“To build affordable housing?”
“To build whatever you want.” He grins. “Starting with that.”
***
By evening, the rain has stopped, and the city is washed clean.
We order Vietnamese food - our place now, the one he introduced me to weeks ago - and eat it on his couch, watching a movie I’ve been trying to get him to appreciate.
“This is objectively terrible,” he says.
“It won three Oscars!”
“The Academy was drunk.”
“You have no taste.”
“I have excellent taste.” He gestures at me. “I chose you, didn’t I?”
I throw a spring roll at him.
He catches it, pops it in his mouth, and grins at me with his cheeks full.
“Disgusting,” I say, but I’m smiling too hard to sell it.
Later, curled against him in the dark, I whisper: “I haven’t felt safe in years.”
He pulls me closer. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I fall asleep with his heartbeat under my ear, steady and sure.
For the first time since the vow renewal, maybe for the first time in years, I don’t dream about Connor at all.
I dream about a building full of light, and all the people who’ll get to call it home.