Chapter 36 Patterns, Not Routines
Patterns, Not Routines
Sabrina
The first thing I notice is how normal it feels.
Waking up with Langston’s arm draped over my waist should feel heavy. Too much. Like something I’ll eventually want to shrug off.
Instead, it feels… right.
His breathing is slow and steady against my neck, his hand warm where it rests on my stomach like it belongs there. I lie still for a moment, listening to the house breathe around us, the soft hum of morning settling in.
I don’t feel trapped.
I feel chosen.
And I'm choosing him back.
When I shift, he tightens his hold reflexively, nose brushing my hair.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice still rough with sleep.
I smile without opening my eyes. “You snore.”
“I absolutely do not.”
“You absolutely do.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest, and presses a kiss to my temple. “Still here?”
I turn in his arms to face him. “Still here.”
That seems to satisfy something in him. His shoulders relax. His thumb traces idle circles against my hip. Not possessive. Not claiming.
Just there.
We fall into a rhythm faster than I expect.
Not routines—those always made me itch—but patterns. The kind that leave room to breathe.
Coffee together in the mornings. Not rushed. Sometimes in silence, sometimes trading comments about news headlines or Olga’s newest reign of terror. He listens when I talk, really listens, even when I ramble about things that don’t matter to anyone but me.
Especially then.
At night, we end up tangled together on the couch more often than not, legs draped over each other, some documentary playing that neither of us is actually watching. His hand always finds mine. Always.
And I let it.
That might be the biggest difference.
Letting him be there doesn’t feel like losing myself.
It feels like finding space I didn’t know I was allowed to take up.
A week after the hospital, Mrs. D is transferred to rehab.
We take Olga to visit her the first afternoon she’s cleared for company. Langston insists on carrying the dog into the building like she’s royalty, even as she squirms dramatically in his arms.
Mrs. D laughs when she sees him. Full-on cackles.
“Oh honey,” she tells me, waving a hand. “That man was made to be bossed around by a woman.”
Langston raises an eyebrow. “I’m standing right here.”
She pats his arm. “Good. Then listen.”
The way he grins at her—soft, respectful, amused—makes my chest ache in a way that feels dangerously close to love.
I catch myself watching him more lately.
Not because I’m unsure.
Because I’m certain.
One night, after dinner, we end up in bed earlier than usual. Not because we’re tired—because neither of us wants to be anywhere else.
He’s stretched out on his back, one arm behind his head. I’m half on top of him, tracing absentminded patterns across his chest while he scrolls through something on his phone.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking up.
“I’m thinking.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
I hum. “You’re different when you’re not hiding.”
That gets his attention. He locks his phone and looks at me fully. “Am I?”
“Yes.” I shift closer, resting my chin on his chest. “You don’t feel… sharp anymore.”
His brow furrows. “Sharp?”
“Like everything around you has edges.” I shrug. “You’re softer now.”
He studies me for a long moment, then reaches up and cups the back of my neck. “That’s because I’m not afraid of you leaving.”
The words land quietly. No accusation. No weight.
Just truth.
I kiss him then. Slow. Easy. The kind of kiss that doesn’t need to prove anything.
When I settle back against him, he wraps both arms around me, pulling me flush.
“Get used to this,” he murmurs. “I like you here.”
I smile into his chest, heart steady, body relaxed.
“I already am.”
Days blur together in the best way.
Work mornings. Long lunches when we can steal them. Evenings where we cook badly together or order in and laugh about it. He doesn’t crowd me. I don’t feel the need to run.
And every night, no matter how the day goes, we end up back in the same place.
His bed.
Our bed.
Curled together, limbs tangled, falling asleep to the quiet certainty that neither of us is going anywhere.
And for the first time since my mother died, that thought doesn’t scare me.
It comforts me.