34. Addison
Addison
The first thing that changed was my mornings.
Not in any dramatic overhaul-my-life way. Just small shifts that slipped into place without asking permission. I started waking up a few minutes before my alarm, my brain checking in somewhere else before it remembered work.
My phone stayed on the nightstand, face down, but my hand reached for it anyway. I flipped it over without thinking, looking for a message.
Sometimes Sawyer had already texted. Half-awake thoughts, a photo of her coffee, a song she had queued up on a shared playlist. Sometimes there was nothing yet. Either way, I smiled. The waiting itself became part of the routine, folded easily into brushing my teeth and tying my hair back.
The days stayed busy. They always did. Contracts, showings, and calls stacked tight enough that my voice lived permanently in professional calm.
But Sawyer threaded herself through all of it in quiet ways.
A text during my lunch break asking if I had eaten.
A voice note from the shop with metal clanging faintly in the background, promising she would be up late waiting for me and make it worth it.
Without trying, I learned the cadence of her days. When she disappeared into work, when she resurfaced, when a call might come and when it wouldn’t.
One night she cooked at my place. It wasn’t planned. She had stopped by after work, grease still faint on her hands, her jacket tossed over a chair like it belonged there. I answered emails at the counter with my laptop open while I watched her move through my kitchen with easy confidence.
She didn’t ask where anything was. She opened drawers, found what she needed, and leaned her hip against the counter while something sizzled on the stove.
Every so often she glanced over at me like she was checking in, like she liked the sight of me standing there barefoot and half focused.
Domestic in a way I had never really let myself be before.
When I finally closed my laptop and turned toward her, she smiled like she had been waiting for that moment.
“Done?” she asked while stirring something in the pan.
“Done,” I said, meaning more than the emails.
She stayed over on a Tuesday night the following week.
It wasn’t a night built around sex. We ate dinner together, put on a show neither of us really watched, and settled into the couch with her arm draped over my waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Eventually we drifted to bed and fell asleep tangled together, her breath warm against my shoulder and my hand resting lightly on her chest.
Sometime before dawn I woke to the sound of quiet movement.
Sawyer was sitting on the edge of the bed pulling on her boots, moving carefully like she was trying not to wake me. I watched through half-closed eyes as she laced them up near the door, her hair still mussed from sleep and her movements slow and deliberate.
She caught me looking.
“Go back to sleep,” she murmured softly.
I didn’t. Instead I listened to the door click shut a minute later and realized the ache that followed wasn’t sharp or panicked. It was warm. Expectant. The kind of missing that assumed return.
We settled into small rituals without naming them.
Coffee runs that always ended with Sawyer stealing mine for a sip, insisting it tasted better that way.
Shared playlists that grew longer and more specific until I could tell what kind of day she had just by the song she sent.
Random evenings when she showed up at my door without warning, kissed me hello, and asked what was for dinner like she hadn’t spent years living on takeout.
Sex happened, of course. But it wasn’t the center of everything anymore.
It had softened into something else. Falling asleep with her leg thrown over mine.
Waking to her thumb tracing absent patterns against my wrist. Hands finding each other automatically in the dark like muscle memory had already decided where they belonged.
Somewhere in the middle of the second week of this new normal, I noticed something else: I wasn’t anxious around her anymore.
That realization landed quietly one morning while I stood in my kitchen holding a mug of coffee, while Sawyer showered.
I noticed how comfortable I was. How much I like her in my space, how having her around made me feel more like myself.
I realized maybe this was what something real felt like.
Growing in the in-between moments, quiet enough that I almost hadn’t noticed it happening.
For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t waiting for the other shoe to drop.
And the repetition showed up in other places too.
Dinner with my parents kept happening, spaced just far enough apart that my mother could pretend she wasn’t keeping score.
The script for these dinners were exactly the same as always.
She asked if I had met anyone new, her tone light but watchful.
She commented on how busy I seemed lately.
She mentioned men casually. Sons of friends, coworkers’ nephews, someone she had run into at the club who was recently divorced and very successful.
I deflected every time. I smiled, changed the subject, and gave answers vague enough to keep things moving.
Each time it cost me a little more energy.
I hated that I couldn’t just find the courage to tell her, ‘Yes mom I met someone, and she’s fucking amazing.
Treats me better than anyone ever has, and I’m so happy.
’ But for some reason, I couldn’t. Ever time I’d convinced myself I was going to, I’d lose my nerve as soon as I walked in the door.
The performance itself was exhausting. The careful neutrality. The way everything with my mother needed managing before it turned sharp. By the time dessert would appear, I always felt wrung out. I noticed it more and more.
I never felt that way with Sawyer.
I didn’t brace myself around her. I didn’t monitor my tone or edit my words. I didn’t leave our time together feeling smaller or drained or like I had completed a task. With Sawyer, I left steady. Full. Like my nervous system had finally learned how to unclench.
That was when it clicked.
I wasn’t hiding Sawyer because I was ashamed of her.
I was hiding her because my mother would make our relationship about herself.
About access, questions, and control. Like proximity entitled her to ownership.
I didn’t want Sawyer folded into that yet.
I didn’t want her turned into a topic or a project.
I wanted to keep her where she was. With me.
Still I felt a little guilty about it, and I hated that I couldn’t just shout it from the rooftops yet.
* * *
Sunday I went to lunch with Benji, and that put everything into a bit more perceptive for me. The way talking to him always did.
We went to the same café we always did, it was near the river with mismatched chairs and a menu that never changed. The repetition of it made everything feel easier.
We started catching up right away. Work first, a deal that finally closed for me. A supplier who had messed up a major steel order for him. I pretended Sawyer hadn’t already told me the exact same story. Fries and iced coffee, even though the air was starting to turn cool in the October air.
Halfway through the meal, he looked at me over the rim of his cup. “You seem lighter.”
“I do?”
“Yeah. Nothing dramatic… just different.”
I stirred my coffee even though it didn’t need stirring. He didn’t push, which was part of why talking to him always felt safe.
“I guess seeing someone I care about has changed me.”
He smiled. “I really am happy for you.”
“Is it weird?”
“That you’re dating my work partner slash best friend?” He raised an eyebrow. For a second, he looked so much like our father that I almost laughed.
“That I’m dating a woman,” I clarified. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Neither one of those things do, for the record. I’m more than fine with you and Sawyer. I like seeing you finally let yourself have this.”
“I’m trying.” I looked down at my coffee. “I still haven’t told Mom and Dad.”
“I get it. Tiff knows, right?”
“Yeah. Tiff and Rowan.”
“And how did that feel?”
“Good,” I admitted. “Easy.”
“Then maybe that’s enough for now. Start with the people you trust.”
I nodded, but the guilt was still there. “I feel like I have this whole other life where I pretend Sawyer doesn’t exist. I always know she does, obviously, but when Lilly or the girls ask questions, I deflect. When people at work talk about their partners, I don’t join in.”
Benji considered that for a moment. “You probably can’t keep your worlds separate forever.”
“I know.”
“And eventually, being hidden might start to hurt her,” he said carefully. “Not because you owe anyone a big announcement, but because she’ll want to feel like she belongs in your life.”
“She’s been so patient with me. I’m scared that patience will only last so long.”
“Take it from someone who’s been hidden.” He sighed. “It stops feeling good when you don’t see any progress.”
My chest tightened.
“Maybe you could introduce her to Tiff and Rowan,” he continued. “Let her meet people from your world who already know.”
I liked that idea. I didn’t want Sawyer to feel like a secret I was ashamed of.
“Yeah. I could do that.”
“And maybe tell Mom you’re seeing someone,” he added. “You don’t have to tell her everything. Just enough that she stops trying to set you up.”
“She’ll ask questions.”
“She always asks questions.”
“I mean real ones. Who is it? How long has it been? Where did we meet?”
“She’ll want to feel included,” he said.
“She’ll want control,” I corrected quietly.
Benji nodded. “Yeah.”
I looked toward the river, sunlight flickering across the water.
“I don’t want to lie. I’m just not ready to open the door all the way.”
“That’s fair.”
Something in my chest eased.
“It’s so easy with Sawyer,” I said. “Then I sit across from Mom and everything feels heavy again.”
“You don’t owe her an explanation for who you love.”
“I know.”
We sat quietly for a moment while the café buzzed around us.
Then Benji nudged my foot beneath the table.
“For what it’s worth, I think you’re handling it in your own way. That’s probably the point.”
I smiled. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
* * *
Packing for the bachelorette trip felt like punishment. My suitcase sat open on the bed, clothes half folded and half abandoned. I had been standing there for ten minutes, holding the same dress without actually packing it.
Sawyer stretched across my bed like she belonged there.
Honestly, she did.
One arm rested behind her head as she watched me with an amused smile. “You’ve folded that dress three times.”
“I hate this trip.” I dropped it onto the bed beside her. “I don’t want to go.”
“You’ve mentioned that.”
“It’s going to be polished and perfect and curated. Everyone pretending their lives are flawless.” I curled into her side.
Her expression softened. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”
“I know and that’s the problem.” I buried my face in the crook of her neck. “I don’t want to leave you.”
“Hey.” She rubbed a slow hand over my back. “It’s only a weekend. You’ll still be you when you come home.”
“I just wish I could stay.”
Sawyer kissed the top of my head. “I’ll be right here when you get back, promise.”
“I’m going to complain the entire time.”
“I know. I’m prepared.”
I groaned but forced myself up and finished packing.
When I finally zipped the suitcase, I climbed back onto the bed and straddled her without thinking.
Sawyer’s hands settled around my waist immediately.
“Suitcase closed?” she asked.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Good.”
She pulled my shirt over my head and tossed it aside. Her eyes darkened as her hands tightened around my waist.
“Come here,” she murmured.
I leaned down, my breath already shallow as the world narrowed to her hands, her mouth, and the way she looked at me like I was exactly where I belonged.
The trip could wait. For now, I was hers.
* * *