“I Chose You.”

It took four years for you to look at someone and not feel afraid.

Four years since the day you crumbled in silence, hiding bruises that weren’t physical but still bled somewhere deep. You had poured your heart into someone who shattered it like it was nothing. He made you believe love was about suffering — that you had to earn affection by enduring the worst. And worst of all, he cheated. Blatantly. Repeatedly. Like your worth was disposable.

You told yourself you were healing. But even long after you walked away, the damage clung to you in invisible ways — second-guessing every kind word, flinching from gentle hands, and feeling undeserving of something as simple as happiness.

And then, there was Jiko.

He wasn’t loud about his feelings. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t try to fix you. He just stayed. Quiet and patient, like time itself knew how to wait.

Four years.

He watched from the sidelines while you rebuilt yourself, piece by trembling piece. He was there when your voice cracked trying to say “I’m okay.” He never asked for more, never hinted that he was tired of waiting — just stood by you like a lighthouse waiting for the storm to pass.

And one week ago, your walls finally gave way. Not from pressure… but from peace.

You accepted him. Just like that. Not because you were lonely. Not because it was convenient. But because for the first time in years, your heart trusted someone again.

He smiled when you said yes, like his whole world finally made sense. You kissed him that night under the porch light, and it didn’t feel like a first kiss — it felt like the end of a long journey home.

That brings you here.

In his room, one week into your quiet new forever.

You had spent the entire evening wrapped in a blanket with Jiko, watching some movie that neither of you really followed. His arm around you, your head on his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek. The occasional laugh from the screen. The gentle weight of his hand running up and down your back. Soft. Safe.

Later, lips met lips. Warm. Familiar. Hungry, but not rushed.

You ended up on his bed — not with lust, but love. The kind that whispered, “you deserve this.” You explored each other slowly. His fingers traced your skin like he was reading a sacred text. Your hands buried in his dark hair, your laughter caught in the seams of your kisses.

You fell asleep tangled together, skin to skin, souls at ease.

And then morning came.

The light didn’t creep in — his curtains were thick and black, keeping the room dim and cocooned. The world outside didn’t matter. All that existed was the warmth of his sheets, the softness of your breath, and the eyes that were already watching you when you stirred awake.

He lay on his side, head propped on one arm, messy hair falling over his forehead. His gaze was steady — quiet, intense, almost reverent. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You blinked slowly, sleep still clinging to your lashes. “You’re staring…”

“I know,” he murmured. His voice was low and rough from sleep. A small smile pulled at his lips. “You’re beautiful when you sleep.”

Your cheeks warmed instantly, and you tried to pull the blanket over your face. But his hand caught yours and gently pulled it away. He leaned closer, so close your noses brushed.

“I still remember the night you cried on my shoulder,” he whispered. “You swore you’d never love again.”

You did. You remembered the exact night — your fists clenched in his shirt, tears soaking the fabric, your voice hoarse from holding back sobs. And him… just holding you.

“And now?” he asked.

You looked into his eyes — dark, sincere, full of that unwavering devotion he never once let go of. You touched his cheek, thumb brushing the faint stubble there.

“Now,” you whispered, “I love you.”

His throat bobbed. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you gently closer until your foreheads met.

“You chose me,” he murmured, like he still couldn’t believe it.

“I did,” you said.

And you’d choose him again — in another lifetime, another world, another body.