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Come Sunday, I’m coming back to your bed. Just so you know.

Me:

It’ll be ready. But for now … rest. You’ve earned it.

#68:

Goodnight, Lo.

Me:

Goodnight, Grimes. Go win the damn game.

When I get out of the shower, my phone chimes. It’s from him.

#68:

Love you, Lo.

Me:

Love you

Sleep comes easier than I thought it would, and yes, I believe it’s because I’m wearing his tee.

* * *

I wake up to the kind of quiet that feels intentional. Like the world is holding its breath.

Sunlight filters through my curtains in soft gold slants, warming the edge of my sheets and the tip of my nose. For a second, I consider rolling over and pretending it’s Sunday. But my stomach growls, and habit wins.

I drag myself up, pad into the bathroom, and throw my hair into a braid that’s half-presentable. No makeup. Just moisturizer, lip balm, and the sweatshirt Kolby left behind that smells like cedar, sleep, and him.

The stairs creak under my feet like always.

But when I turn the corner into the kitchen, I stop short.

There, on the little round table tucked under the window, sits a jar of wildflowers. Some picked, some probably snagged from the farmers’ market. Bluebells, daisies, those tiny purple things I can never name.

They’re messy. A little overstuffed.

And completely perfect.

Next to them, folded in half and weighted with a smooth river rock from my porch is a note.

My name is written in his handwriting—blocky and bold, like he didn’t trust himself to write something soft.

I unfold the paper, and my breath catches.

Been wanting to get you these since the very first night that perfect storm brought us together.

Haven’t had the chance until now.

From now on, I won’t miss another moment with you.

I am yours,

K