Page 148 of Fault Lines
He barreled on: “It’s just—I know I messed up before, and I know I get in my head sometimes, but I want this to work. I want you here, with me. Even if it’s just, like, a test run.” He gestured at the apartment, as if to say, Look, it’s not much, but it’s yours if you want it.
I tried to picture it—me, living here, with him. Cooking dinner, fighting over whose turn it was to buy toilet paper, sharing the crossword on a lazy Sunday. For so long, the idea of belonging anywhere had made my skin crawl. But now, looking at Nate’s worried, hopeful face, I felt something unclench inside me.
“I’d like that,” I said, and the truth of it startled me. “Yeah. I’d like to move in.”
He stared at me, like he hadn’t quite heard. “Really?”
“Really.”
The joy on his face was almost embarrassing. He rushed forward, sweeping me up and spinning me around like a sitcom cliché. I shrieked, partly in surprise and partly because he nearly knocked me into the wall, but then we both laughed, breathless, bodies pressed together in the tight, bright little entryway.
He set me down gently, but kept his arms wrapped around my waist. “You sure?” he said, so close I could feel his pulse through his shirt. “You’re not just humoring me?”
I reached up and touched his face, tracing the stubble along his jaw. “I’m sure. I want to be here. With you.”
For a second, neither of us moved. I felt the warmth of him seep into me, slow and steady, until the room faded away. He leaned in and kissed me, a careful, reverent kiss that grew deeper and more certain with every second. My hands found his hair, tangling, pulling him closer. His body pressed into mine, insistent but not demanding, and I melted into it, let myself be carried.
We made it to the couch in a tangle of limbs, our laughter dying down as the urgency took over. Nate was always careful with me, but today there was a roughness, a hunger that I matched beat for beat. We kissed until my lips were numb, and then he pulled me onto his lap, hands roaming, finding every inch of skin under my shirt.
I wasn’t thinking about anything—not the past, not the future, not the old wounds or the fear that I’d ruin this the same way I’d ruined everything else. I just let go, let myself feel: the slide of his fingers along my spine, the heat of his breath in my ear, the way he said my name like it was a secret only he was allowed to know.
Clothes came off in fits and starts—his shirt, my jeans, the rest of it. When he moved inside me, there was no hesitation, no second-guessing. Just us, together, all the sharp edges smoothed out by sweat and laughter and the kind of wanting that made the world disappear.
After, we lay on the couch, bodies slick and tangled, the sunlight shifting across the floor in slow, lazy patterns. My head rested on his chest, rising and falling with every breath. I could hear his heart, strong and steady, and for once I believed in its promise.
He stroked my hair, slow and absent, like he could do it forever. “You really meant it?” he whispered, half-asleep already.
I nodded, pressing my lips to his collarbone. “I meant it.”
We drifted, both of us, into a soft, untroubled sleep. I dreamed of nothing and woke to the sound of rain against the window, the gray light curling around us like a blanket.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel alone. I felt found.
Nate snored a little, a low rumble that vibrated through his ribs. I listened to it, let it anchor me. Then I got up, padded naked to the kitchen, and made coffee for both of us, careful to pour it just the way he liked: strong, with one sugar and a little bit of half-and-half.
I brought it back, set his mug on the end table, and watched him sleep for a minute before nudging him awake.
He blinked, saw me, and smiled—the kind of smile you can’t fake, even if you want to.
“Morning, roomie,” he said, and pulled me back onto the couch, coffee forgotten for the moment.
The rain kept falling, steady and unhurried. The day stretched out before us, wide open.
And for once, I was okay with not knowing what came next.
∞∞∞
There was a rhythm to mornings at Timeless Treasures, and it started with the jangle of the key in the old lock, always a split second before the alarm chirped its mechanical greeting. Nate and I let ourselves in, arms laden with thermoses and, today, a paper sack of blueberry muffins from the bakery down the block. The store was cold and shadowed, all the better to enjoy the process of flicking on the lights one row at a time, watching the shelves brighten in a slow, golden domino.
I always got first pick of the muffin bag. Nate said it was because I was the senior employee, but really it was because he liked to watch my reaction and make snide comments about my “animalistic approach to pastry.” He made a show of dusting off the espresso machine and prepping a pair of cappuccinos, taking forever so he could steam the milk extra thick, and more than once he’d tried to draw obscene latte art just to make me laugh.
We’d been working together like this for three weeks. It should have been awkward, living and working and sharing every minute, but it wasn’t. Maybe because there was always something to do; maybe because the work itself was soothing. The ritual of shelving and inventory and register tape was as close as I got to meditation.
At nine, the regulars started to filter in. The first was Mrs. Green, who always asked for “the new Scandinavian detective series” and insisted on paying with change. Nate handled her, rolling his eyes only after she’d shuffled off. I set up the day’s display—“Books for Rainy Days”—and filled it with thick, sad novels. It was an in-joke for Nate, who claimed I only read “stuff where people get quietly miserable in the Midwest.” I added a single copy of Sex After Sixty, just to see if he’d notice.
By ten, the coffee machine had already started gurgling complaints, but Nate was on his third espresso and didn’t seem to mind. He caught me eyeing the machine and grinned. “You’re just jealous I can still metabolize caffeine after noon.”
“I’m jealous you can metabolize anything after that muffin massacre,” I replied, flicking a stray crumb at his chest.
