A lump forms in my throat, a steel block making it difficult to breathe, as flashbacks of my life pop up like Polaroids.

How many women have I kissed in the past? Several.

How many hands have I held as I pinned them above a woman’s head, mindlessly fucking them into oblivion? Dozens.

How many orgasms have I given and received? Hundreds.

Why is this proclamation, this intent to commit and this nonsexual contact shrouding me in anxiety, wanting to do every. Little. Thing. Right?

Because it’s her.

I take notice of the four freckles spread out on the backside of her hand, aligned in an almost perfect geometrical square. I turn her hand over, relishing in the smoothness of her callous-free palm. My fingers trace each lifeline, measuring their length and width. Details so minuscule and insignificant, I’ve never been bothered to look before. I’m usually too busy ripping clothes off to appreciate the small things, ready to bury my dick inside a woman instead of counting the breaths they take or the artwork of their beauty marks.

Now… Now I have to grip the mattress to steady myself. My hand tightens around hers, confirming she’s here, in the flesh, beside me. I’m almost shaking proleptically, desperate to extend every second we have.

Jesus fuck. Who knew one person could have such control over me?

Plenty of women have tried to tame me. Plenty of women have argued they could make me happy. A parade of females have come and gone, insisting they “aren’t like the other girls” and can be the one “to change” me.

It’s ironic the person who never tried is the only one capable of those superpowers.

“You’ve been really surprising,” Emma says. The lilt of her voice sounds reassured. Optimistic. A renewed faith in the man grasping her arm close to his body. “You’re kind of wonderful. And I kind of hate myself for never realizing it before.”

I snort, kissing her palm. “Believe me, Sunflower, I am far from wonderful. I have many, many flaws.”

“So do I. You’re wonderful to me, and I think in the grand scheme of life, that’s the only thing that matters, right?”

Have I finally done the right thing? Gotten over my disdain and fear of commitment and monogamy? If this is what a relationship is like, why the hell have I been so unenthusiastic about having one?

We’re trying.

Together.

And boy, that makes me giddy as fuck.

“Right,” I agree, the tightness in my chest that’s been persistently nagging me all evening reappearing. “I’m sorry I interrupted your book. I’m going to catch up on some emails before bed. Is that okay?”