Page 71 of Push My Buttons
Islipintomyoversized sleep shirt as I listen to Jace shower, my fingers still trembling slightly as I pull it over my head. The word keeps echoing in my mind, as startling to me as it was to them.
Love.
Did I really say that out loud? Was that really the word that found its way past my lips?
I catch my reflection in the mirror, pink hair still damp from the shower, cheeks flushed. My throat doesn't hurt and there’s no phantom pressure of hands, no panic closing in.
But the implications of what I said... that's what makes my heart race now.
Love.
Not "hello" or "thanks" or even "home" like I practiced with Dr. Levine. Love. As if my subconscious decided to broadcast the one thing I've been too afraid to acknowledge, even to myself.
Do they think I meant it romantically? That I was declaring something? Or did they just see it as a random word, the first that happened to break through?
I press my hands to my cheeks, trying to cool the heat there. Six weeks of them in my life, in my bed, in my heart—is it too soon to call it love? Too presumptuous to think they might feel the same?
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. The important thing is that I spoke. After everything, after all this time, I’m starting to find my voice again. To reclaim something that had been taken from me. That's what matters—not what word came out, but that any word did at all.
Still, as I pull on a pair of sleep shorts, I can't help but wonder if they understood what the word means to me. How completely they've changed my life. How safe I feel with them, despite the lingering fear that it could all disappear in an instant.
Theo comes in to start setting up the bedroom for the night—pulling back covers, adjusting pillows, plugging in phones. Such simple, domestic tasks, but they make my chest ache with unexpected tenderness.
"Hey, you," he says when he notices me watching him. His smile is warm, unguarded. "Feel better after your shower?"
I nod, moving to help him with the bedding. We work in comfortable silence for a moment, and I'm grateful he doesn't push me to speak again. That's been their approach from the beginning—never demanding, always accepting whatever form of communication I can offer.
"You know," Theo says casually as he fluffs a pillow, "I think that's the first time anyone's ever rendered Jace completely speechless. You should be proud."
I laugh softly, my shoulders shaking. It's such a Theo comment—lightening the moment with humor while still acknowledging its significance.
"Seriously, though," he continues, his voice softening. "What you did today? That was incredible, Wren. Beyond incredible."
I look up to find his eyes on me, filled with such genuine admiration that it makes my breath catch. I sign"thank you,"suddenly too overwhelmed for more complex communication.
He crosses to me, taking my hands in his. "Don’t, don’t thank us," he says. "We're the lucky ones, getting to be part of this journey with you. We are so proud of you."
I swallow hard, wishing I could find the words—spoken or signed—to express how much that means to me. Instead, I rise on tiptoes and press a kiss to his cheek, hoping he understands.
The shower shuts off, and a few minutes later Jace emerges in a cloud of steam, wearing only a towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water cling to his shoulders, and his hair is slicked back from his face, making his features appear even sharper than usual.
My mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Six weeks, and I still feel this flutter in my stomach when I see either of them—like the first time, every time.
"Bed?" Jace suggests, grabbing sweatpants from the dresser that's now half-filled with their clothes.
I nod, suddenly exhausted. The emotional weight of the day—the therapy breakthrough, the unexpected spoken word, the intensity of their reactions—has drained me completely.
Jace flips off the overhead light, plunging the room into gentle shadow. Then Theo clicks on the small bedside lamp, its soft glow casting a warm pool of light across the bed. It’s bright enough for us to see each other but muted enough to keep the room hushed and private.
We settle into our usual positions—me in the middle, Jace on my left, Theo on my right. It's become so familiar, this arrangement of bodies, this sharing of space and warmth. Jace props himself against the headboard with his laptop, already diving back into whatever project has been consuming himlately. Theo scrolls through his phone, occasionally showing me something that makes him laugh.
I lie between them, content to simply exist in this moment of perfect quiet domesticity. My hand rests on Jace's thigh, feeling the subtle tap-tap-tap of his fingers against the keyboard. My other hand is loosely entwined with Theo's, his thumb absently stroking my palm.
Safe. I feel so incredibly safe.
But there's a fragility to this safety that I can't ignore—a gossamer-thin quality that makes me afraid to breathe too deeply, to want too much. As if acknowledging how perfect this feels might somehow jinx it.
I stare at the ceiling, my mind racing despite my body's exhaustion. The word I spoke keeps circling back, demanding attention.
