Emma’s upended everything I thought I knew about relationships and being with someone. These past few mornings I’ve woken up peacefully and in no rush to roll out of bed and disappear. It’s almost like there’s an invisible string tethering us together, linking us, preventing me from wanting to shove her away. Every moment with her I reel it in, inch by inch, wondering how close I can get, and what will happen when I do.

Closing the bedroom door behind me, I prop my elbow on the dresser and look at her. Because I’m finally allowed to look at her.

God, she’s so effortlessly gorgeous.

Don’t get me wrong, she was radiant tonight—waltzing around in a fancy dress and a pretty updo, menacing heels on her feet and lipstick painted on her lips. Here, in the dim lighting of my childhood bedroom, wearing her massive sleep shirt and pajama shorts, a dollop of frosting sitting on the corner of her mouth and crumbs on her fingers, she’s never looked more beautiful.

Exquisite.

Perfect.

Mine.

Her hair is in a messy bun, the curls from earlier breaking apart and framing the soft features of her face. She’s leaning back against the pillows, posture relaxed, feet tucked under her, and a small throw blanket covering her calves.

“Are you planning on standing there all night? You could try taking a photo. It would last longer.” Her voice pulls me out of my stupor of admiration and I shake my head, clearing my thoughts.

“I’m just enjoying the view,” I reply, walking to the bed and sitting on the edge of the mattress. “What’re you reading? Doesn’t look like work stuff.”

“Definitely not career-oriented. It’s a fantasy story about fairies. I’ll spare you the details, but imagine wars, crowns, cauldrons. The usual.”

“Fairies? Like Tinker Bell?”

“Try men who are taller than you and can fly.”

“Ouch. You’re making me jealous, Burnsie.”

Instead of answering, she smiles a soft, shy smile that makes my heart beat faster. We’re left with an easy quiet and I appreciate the stillness. The heater clicks on, a quiet hum filling the room, and her eyes drag ploddingly to meet mine.

They’re wide, full of an aching need. Beneath those desires, though, hidden beyond the wants of physical affection, there’s a timid vulnerability. An edginess, as if she’s afraid I’m going to walk out of the room at any second, leaving her behind.

I’m not going any-goddamn-where.

She’s giving me air and life, and if I go… I think I might die.

“What are you thinking about?” I finally ask, breaking the silence.

“It’s warm in here. You look absurdly attractive without a shirt on. I think I have frosting in my hair. I’m still nervous. So, so nervous.”