The plates had been cleared an hour ago, but the scent of rosemary and roasted lemon still clung to the air. Her cooking always did that—hung around like a comfort that didn’t know how to leave. She’d made something just for him again, of course. Light, elegant, intentional. But never fussy. Never like she was trying to prove anything. She just… knew him.

It never felt like a performance with her, and that was rare for a man who made a living out of performing.

Tom had eaten quietly, gratefully, watching the way she moved around the kitchen with that usual air of assuredness—shoulders back, head high, feet bare, hair tied up like she owned the place, because she did. Not just the house. The moment. Him.

He sat now on the couch, legs tucked beneath himself, one arm draped around her. She curled into him, heavier, solid, warm like summer. He adored her weight—there was nothing fragile about her, and he loved that. She felt like presence. Like certainty. She didn’t shrink or shy or fidget when his hand slid across her waist. She made no apologies for the way her body curved and softened into his.

And God, the confidence.

It made something inside him settle.

Tom had spent too much of his life managing perception—his own, others’. He’d been careful. Precise. Always trying to take up just the right amount of space, physically and emotionally. When people saw him, they saw the tailored version. Measured. Polished. Charming, without being overwhelming. Never too much.

But she didn’t do that.

She didn’t apologize for her body, or her laugh, or the way she draped herself over him like a cat who knew she belonged wherever she pleased. She didn’t ask if she looked okay. She knew she did. She didn’t hide the seconds she took at dinner, didn’t glance at him for permission when her dress rode up slightly while she sat, didn’t ask for validation the way he often found himself fishing for.

And maybe it should have made him nervous. Maybe it should have poked at all the bruised places in his mind that whispered about expectations and aesthetics. But it didn’t.

It made him feel safe.

Safe to want. Safe to soften. Safe to admit, if only to himself, that he didn’t want porcelain—he wanted real. He wanted someone who didn’t break. Someone who didn’t shatter under scrutiny. Someone whose body welcomed him with intent, not performance.

She was beautiful. And she knew it.

That was dangerous.

And intoxicating.

He pressed his nose into her hair as she leaned more into his chest, the heat from her skin soaking into him. Her bracelets clinked softly as her arm shifted against his side. She still smelled like butter and herbs. He breathed her in like a man parched.

And still—still—his chest hurt. In that way it always did when someone was too good to be real.

He couldn’t understand what she saw in him. Not lately. Not in the dark mornings where he couldn’t look in the mirror. Not when his mind was noisy and crowded and mean. Not when he cried on her shoulder at 3 a.m. and she never once flinched or asked him to quiet down.

But she never doubted. Not once.

And that—that relentless, unflinching belief—made something inside him ache.

His fingers found her hand, lifting it, cradling it between both of his palms. He kissed each knuckle slowly, like she always did to him. A mirror of reverence.

And then, quietly—almost like he didn’t want to disturb the peace of the room—he whispered:

“You make me feel like I’m allowed to love myself.”