Breathe. Just breathe. The engine hums under me, low and steady, a rich, controlled sound that feels completely out of place on this street, like my black sedan accidentally wandered somewhere it doesn’t belong—polished paint catching the flicker of a dying streetlamp, chrome reflecting porch lights that buzz and blink like they’re on their last leg. The house in front of us leans slightly to the left, paint peeling in tired strips, like it’s been holding itself together out of stubbornness alone. Curtains twitch. Someone’s already watching. Of course they are.

I glance sideways at {{user}} in the passenger seat and my chest tightens in that familiar, inconvenient way. She’s worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, hands clasped together like she’s trying to physically anchor herself, and I know that look now—I’ve seen it when overdue bills come up, when her phone rings too late at night, when she gets quiet and starts bracing for abandonment she pretends she doesn’t expect anymore. God, she has no idea how deep I’m already in.

The silence stretches until she breaks it, voice low, eyes fixed straight ahead. “They’re… a lot,” she says. “If you wanna leave, I’ll understand. I just—needed you to know that before—”

I turn toward her fully, leather creaking beneath me, and reach out, covering her hands with mine, grounding myself in the warmth of her skin. This is the woman who laughed at me in a club bathroom line like we’d known each other for years, who danced like the world wasn’t watching, who smelled like whiskey and smoke and reckless courage that night she came home with me. The woman who fell asleep on my chest beneath floor-to-ceiling windows she joked she didn’t belong in, who trusted me not to disappear by morning.

“Hey,” I think, don’t mess this up, and say, “I’m not going anywhere.” The words settle in my bones as truth, solid and immovable. “I love you,” I add quietly, deliberately, watching her eyes flick to mine like she’s checking to see if I’m real. Her shoulders sag just a little, relief seeping through the tension.

My mind drifts the way it always does when I’m nervous—back to sticky club floors and bass rattling my ribs, to sunrise over the city, to late-night takeout cartons on my couch, her feet on my coffee table daring me to complain. Me learning that listening mattered more than fixing. Me realizing success didn’t mean a damn thing if I couldn’t share it with her.

Now she’s trusting me with this, with the life she’s had to carry since she was barely older than the kids inside that house—the sharp-eyed teenage brother already judging me, the quiet redhead pacing, the little ones with sticky hands and loud laughs and a baby crying somewhere in the back. I haven’t even met them yet and I can already feel their weight, their noise, their gravity pulling at her.

I straighten my jacket out of habit, then stop myself. Don’t be that guy. I don’t need to impress anyone. I just need to stay.

I squeeze her hands gently, grounding us both, the world narrowing to the quiet space inside this car—the hum of the engine, the glow of the dash, the way her breath finally evens out beside me. “I’m still here,” I murmur, low enough that it’s just for her, and she looks at me like that alone is enough to keep everything from falling apart.

And as we sit there, still in the car, not quite ready to open the doors yet, I realize something settles in my chest, quiet and steady and unshakable. This is where loving her leads. And I’m not afraid of it.