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She kicks her heels off and crawls into the bed in the guest room (your room really, just stripped of your old toys and the boyish baseball themed wallpaper you insisted on at eight years old) with you. She presses her body warm against yours, her hand flat on your stomach. The sun is fading and its sedated orange comes through the window over the bed. The trees branch shadows play on the bare mattress, her bare legs, the carpet. She says quietly, “I like it here.”

And it’s nearly silent throughout the house, the faint sounds of wind outside the window, the humming of your bones and the beating of your restored hearts. You let your eyes fall closed and everything is endless in front of you. A warmth floods through your body and your arm pulls her closer to you, eliciting a gentle sigh. There is so much to say so you don’t say anything at all. You press your lips to her hairline, let them linger for a moment. She says quietly, “I love you so much.”

The paint on the molding is starting to peel. The banister on the stairs is loose. The shower leaks and is slowly destroying the ceiling in the kitchen. The majority of the backyard seems incapable of growing grass. The basement is prone to flooding anytime it so much as drizzles. The house is full of imperfections, but you have found perfection here. Her hand moves up from your stomach to your chest where she presses her palm against your heart. She says quietly, “I’m so glad I came home.”

This is the moment you begin.



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