There she is.

My girl.

Yeah—I said it. I can finally say it again. My girl.

God, she’s gonna kill me when she wakes up and catches me staring like this. But how could I not? Hair a mess, breathing slow, lips parted like she never left. Like she’s been here all along.

Like I didn’t spend the last eight months trying to forget her—only to realise I never could.

And last night?

Last night was supposed to be a mistake. A bad idea. A relapse, we’d said. Closure, we pretended. But it wasn’t.

It was everything.

She kissed me like she meant it. Laughed at my dumb jokes halfway through undressing me. Looked up at me like I hadn’t ruined it the first time. And I hadn’t meant to say it—but I told her I missed her.

Said it right against her mouth. And she didn’t flinch. She didn’t leave. She curled into me and whispered, “I missed you too,” like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And now? Now I’m standing here watching her sleep like a goddamn romcom idiot. But I don’t care. I don’t care that my coffee’s cold or that I’ve got morning practice in three hours or that the lads’ll take the piss when they find out.

I care that she’s here.

That when I woke up, she hadn’t snuck out.

That I get to wake up to her again.

Maybe we needed the time apart. Maybe we had to fall apart to fall back together properly. But she’s here now. And I’m not letting her go again—not unless she makes me.

Hell, I’d get on one knee right now if I thought she wouldn’t throw a pillow at my face.

But later.

Later I’ll make her pancakes. Later I’ll kiss that look of doubt off her face. Later I’ll tell her, out loud and without flinching, “I’m still in love with you.”

And this time?

I’ll mean forever.