Belonging
The calendar flipped to April without fanfare. Cherry blossoms had come and gone along the Potomac, leaving pink confetti on every sidewalk in Arlington. The apartment no longer smelled of cardboard; it smelled like us: coffee in the morning, his citrus body wash in the shower, the faint metallic tang of iron plates when we dragged the home gym setup into the spare room. Steph’s name was on the lease now. Officially. No more “crashing indefinitely.” He’d signed the paperwork with the same goofy grin he wore when he spotted me on a heavy set.
Mornings were my favorite. He still woke up tangled around me: leg thrown over my hip, face buried in the crook of my neck, breath warm and even. Some days he woke first and I’d open my eyes to find him watching me, green eyes soft, fingers tracing the edge of my beard like he was memorizing it. Other days I woke him with slow kisses down his spine until he arched and murmured my name like a prayer.
We still went to fitARL three or four times a week. Not every day anymore: some evenings we stayed in, cooked terrible stir-fry together, burned the rice, laughed until we couldn’t breathe, then ended up on the couch making out like teenagers until one of us dragged the other to bed. The gym had become less about hunting for glances and more about routine. He’d spot me on bench. I’d correct his squat form with a hand on his lower back that lingered longer than necessary. Sometimes we’d steal a quick kiss in the locker room when no one was looking... nothing obscene, just a brush of lips that said mine without words.
He’d started applying to jobs again. Consulting firms, mostly. Entry-level analyst roles. He’d come home from interviews in a cheap suit that still looked unfairly good on him, tie loosened, hair mussed from running his hands through it, and collapse onto the couch with his head in my lap.
“How’d it go?” I’d ask, fingers carding through his buzz cut.
“Fine. Nervous. They asked about my five-year plan. I almost said ‘marry you and adopt a dog,’ but I think that would’ve been premature.”
I’d laugh. Kiss his temple. “Not premature. Just early.”
He’d tilt his head back, look up at me with that bright, open expression that still caught me off guard sometimes.
“You’d really do that? The dog part, I mean. I know the other part’s… bigger.”
I’d lean down, kiss him slow. “Dog. Ring. All of it. Whenever you’re ready.”
He never pushed. Never asked for timelines. Just smiled like the answer was enough.
One Saturday in late April we drove out to Great Falls... early enough that the parking lot was still half-empty, mist rising off the water. We walked the trail in comfortable silence, shoulders brushing, hands swinging close enough to link fingers when no one was around. At the overlook he stopped, leaned against the railing, watched the falls roar below us.
“I used to come here with my parents,” he said quietly. “When I was a kid. Dad would carry me on his shoulders so I could see better. Mom would take a million pictures. I remember thinking the water was the loudest thing I’d ever heard.”
I stood behind him, arms sliding around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder.
“Now it’s not so loud,” he continued. “Or maybe I just got used to noise. But standing here with you… it feels quiet. In a good way.”
I tightened my arms. “You belong here,” I murmured against his ear. “With me. With this. All of it.”
He turned in my hold, cupped my face with both hands. Studied me like he still couldn’t quite believe I was real.
“I’ve spent most of my life feeling like I was waiting for something to click,” he said. “Like I was almost there, but never quite. With her. With school. With figuring out who I even was.” His thumbs brushed my cheekbones. “It clicked the night you kissed me outside your building. And every day since has just been… more of the same click. Louder. Clearer.”
My throat felt tight. I swallowed once.
“I spent thirty-six years moving,” I told him. “Hotel rooms. Airports. Quick hookups. Never staying anywhere long enough to miss it when I left. I thought that was freedom.” I rested my forehead against his. “Then you tripped over your own water bottle in the gym, laughed at yourself like it was the funniest thing in the world, and I realized I’d been running from the exact thing I wanted most. Someone to come home to. Someone who makes the quiet feel safe.”
He smiled... small, watery, perfect.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you too.”
We kissed there... slow, deep, unhurried, while the falls roared behind us and the sun climbed higher. No rush. No audience. Just us.
Later, back at the apartment, we showered together. Slow hands. Soft laughter when soap slipped. We ended up in bed again... not frantic this time, just close. Skin on skin. His head on my chest, my fingers in his hair, our legs entwined.
Outside, the city hummed... traffic on Wilson Boulevard, distant sirens, the low thrum of life that never really stopped. Inside, it was quiet.
And for the first time in my life, quiet didn’t feel lonely.
It felt like home.
We stayed like that until the light turned golden again, until his breathing evened out and he dozed against me. I didn’t move. Just held him.
And somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, I understood something I’d spent years running from:
I belonged here too.
Right here.
With him.
The End
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