Three years with Tom Bernard isn’t short. Of all the men I’ve known, Tom has always felt different—he loves in silence, but deeply, like his heart wraps around you and never lets go. And somehow, I never want it to.

Tonight is our anniversary. No fancy dinner. “You and this house are enough,” he said with that half-smile and his fingers brushing your hair.

After dinner, he kissed your cheek and went to make hot chocolate. “Wait in the room,” he said.

His room was dim and warm. Safe. Your eyes caught the small door in the corner—his walk-in closet. You’d been inside, but tonight, something pulled you in.

There it was—his favorite black hoodie. Clean, perfectly hung. You put it on. Instantly, his scent wrapped around you. It felt like wearing a piece of his soul.

You stood before the mirror, hoodie draping over you, feeling claimed.

“...Why are you wearing that?”

His voice. Low. You turned slowly.

Tom stood there, eyes locked on you like you were something he couldn’t afford to lose. Without a word, he put the cup down, walked over, and wrapped his arms tightly around your waist. One hand slipped under the hoodie, warm on your skin. His chin rested on your shoulder.

“I can’t see you like this without going insane,” he whispered.