Page 110 of Returned Mail

Because this—this soft weight, this unconscious trust, this unconscious claim—is the closest thing to peace I’ve felt in over a decade. So, I sit there and let my walls come apart.

Every mission, every scar, every letter, every night in that hospital room with her fingers wrapped around mine, all of it unravels in the silence. And underneath it, the truth I’ve been dodging for months lies bare: I am truly in love with her.

I love her in the way that rearranged me. In a way that makes every day before her feel black-and-white. I love the way she overthinks everything and still chooses people. I love the way she laughs like she doesn’t know how beautiful it makes her. I love the way she looked at me in that hospital bed like I was worth all twenty-seven hours it took to get there.

I love that she came when no one else did.

And yeah, I want her. God, I want her. My body has been very clear about that from the moment I saw her pictures. But it’s more than wanting to get her into my bed. I want her in all the quiet, boring, stupid parts of my life too. I want her burnt dinners, her bad TV recommendations, her ridiculous cereal habits, and her notes stuck to the fridge because she thinks she’ll forget something and never actually does.

I want… everything.

The movie ends. Another starts, and I still don’t move. Her breathing stays soft and steady, and every rise and fall of her chest against my leg dials the ache in my chest tighter.

At some point, the sky outside the window darkens, then lightens again, and I realize I haven’t slept. I’ve just been sitting here, one hand hovering close enough to feel her warmth, not quite brave enough to touch.

By the time the credits roll on whatever’s playing now, my mind feels scraped raw from all the things I’ve admitted to myself with no one else listening.

I’m done lying about it.

She wakes up to the smell of coffee and light.

The sun has made it over the buildings, spilling through the window onto the couch, onto her hair, making the stray strands glow. It’s barely five in the morning.

I coaxed myself out from under her half an hour ago, slowly, carefully, so I wouldn’t wake her. My legs were pins and needles, and my back protested, but none of that mattered. I’d have let my whole body go numb if it meant she slept.

Now she stirs, lashes fluttering, nose scrunching in that way she does when she’s trying to pretend she’s not awake yet.

“Hey there,” I say, leaning on the doorway with two mugs in my hands. “You alive?”

She blinks at me, dazed. “Did I—did I fall asleep here?”

“Yeah.” My mouth tugs. “On me. For hours and hours. Kinda rude, honestly.”

Her eyes widen. Color rushes to her cheeks. “George. Why didn’t you wake me up? Your leg, oh my god, are you⁠—”

“Mia,” I say, handing her a mug, “I’m fine.” She takes it with both hands, fingers wrapping around the ceramic. The T-shirt she’s wearing is too big for her, and by now it has slipped off one shoulder, exposing the soft curve where her neck meets her collarbone and the place where her breasts start. I try very hard not to stare.

I fail miserably.

She shifts self-consciously, pulls the fabric up. “You should have shoved me onto the other couch or my bed.”

“That seems like a violation of house rules,” I say. “You were out cold.”

She groans softly. “I drooled, didn’t I?”

“A little,” I say, because she is cute when she’s offended. She gapes at me.

I grin. “I’m kidding. You just talked in your sleep.”

Her eyes go huge. “What did I say?”

“You complained about a burnt toast,” I say. “Which sounded like it happens often.” She throws a cushion at me. I catch it with one hand, my body remembering movements my muscles are still relearning.

I put my mug down on the table, hand suddenly slick with sweat. “I have something for you,” I say.

She freezes. Her eyes narrow, curious. “George, you didn’t have to⁠—”

“It’s just a little something…” That clearly doesn’t reassure her, but she watches as I walk to my room and pull open the drawer; she has opened it half a dozen times without noticing it. The letter is right where I left it. Every word pressed into the page, as if I were trying to anchor myself with ink. I carry it back to her, feeling like I’m carrying my own chest cavity around in my hands.