My other hand sliding into her hair is me saying, I never want to lose you, and my lips pressing right above her heart mean, I’ll do anything for you.

Somehow, I think she understands, because she’s opening up to me like a flower, relaxing and unfurling as I touch and taste and stroke. And by the time she’s rolling on the condom, her expression is open and her eyes are fixed on mine, unguarded and trusting and so beautiful my own eyes fill with tears.

I roll her on her back and she parts her legs for me, eager and ready, and as I press inside her I hope she knows I’m saying, I love you, even though I haven’t dared to say it out loud yet. We move together and I can’t tell where I end and she begins—we’re one body, warm skin and mingled sighs.

And even though she doesn’t want my words, I need to say them anyway.

“Josie.” My voice is rough, and I interlace our fingers, holding her in place. “Josie, look at me.”

She does, and goes completely still.

Gazing into her bottomless eyes, I say the words I hope she’s ready to hear. “No matter where I go, if I’m two hours or two thousand miles away, I’m yours.”

Her eyes fill with tears, and she looks away.

“Josie,” I say again, and she slowly lifts her eyes to meet mine. “I’m yours. Always.”

The tears roll down her cheeks, but this time, she doesn’t look away.

“Always,” I whisper.

She doesn’t speak, but I see her lips form the word: Always.

—

After, when Josie’s asleep in my bed, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, my thoughts a jumbled mess.

I thought I was doing the right thing, the brave thing, putting her needs and wants over mine. I thought I was sacrificing for her. But what if I’m sacrificing her? Us. The future we could’ve had together.

I look down and watch her sleeping. She’s curled on her side, her hair a cascade of chestnut-brown waves across my pillow. How did I ever consider moving more than a hundred miles away from this woman? It’s madness. Sure, we could try to make long-distance work, but why would I even want to?

I thought it might be good to give Josie space and time, like my mom suggested. But maybe that’s not what Josie needs. Maybe she needs to know—really know, down to her core—that I’m not going anywhere, so she can trust her heart with me.

Josie stirs in her sleep and says something that sounds like my name.

“I’m here,” I whisper.

She exhales, her eyes still closed, and mumbles, “Oh, good.”