In the year since we started seeing each other, I’ve never once resented Scarlett’s writing process. She has always been intensely focused, sometimes going silent for weeks on end if she’s working out a difficult passage. It has been fairly recent that she’s let me be in the room while she works at all, and being able to watch her create is a privilege. Having any part in her work is exhilarating. Her writing is full of emotion. It regularly moves me to tears, and I want to support her in any way I can.

“Of course.” I plant one more kiss on her neck for good measure, then make my way to the bed. Leaning against the headboard, I stretch out my legs and grab the manuscript I had printed out at the office before coming home tonight.

We work in silence for who knows how long. Scarlett seems lost in her own world, and it doesn’t take long for the rhythmic clicking of her keyboard to become background noise to my own reading. Soon, I’m so engrossed in the story in front of me that I don’t notice when the sound stops, and the room falls into complete silence.

“What about love?”

She’s so quiet, I almost don’t hear it. Her back is to me, and she’s staring at a dark laptop screen. It must have shut off while she was thinking.

I gently lay the manuscript on the nightstand and my red pen on top of it. “What about it?”

From this angle, I can make out the thumb of her left hand pressing circles into the palm of her right. I’ve seen her make this exact motion when she’s on the phone with her editor and she isn’t quite sure how to proceed.

“I…I was wondering if it’s a strong enough word. Love.”

Ever so slowly, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand. Scarlett doesn’t move to look at me, but her shoulders tense and her thumb stops its movement.

“It doesn’t seem strong enough.” She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Not by your standards anyway. But I can’t think of another one that would be more appropriate—”

“Scarlett,” I say, my voice low and soothing. “What are you trying to say?”

She does turn to look at me then, draping an arm over the back of the chair and pressing her chest into it as if she could hide her vulnerability. Her brows are pinched together, and her bottom lip looks like she’s drawn blood by chewing on it so much.