I would like to live here, with him.

He sends me a link to a loft apartment nearby, one with enough space for two of us and a dog. It’s cheaper than our current combined rent.

A week passes. I work my job. I go to yoga. I climb. I dance. I ride my bicycle back and forth across the city. On the weekend we ski. Up in the alpine, snow blowing across the landscape.

We meet friends for dinner at a Moroccan restaurant. The server lifts the top from a tagine pot placed between the two of us. We pull pieces of tender lamb from a shank and spoon it all over couscous. Cold white wine and a belly dancer and laughing and six of our friends tucked into a cozy corner rich with textiles, pillows, and quivering candles.

I am blessed. Thank you for this life.

Conversation flows, about work, about not-work. Nina’s new boyfriend is there, and he’s quiet and hesitant.

“We’ve been talking about moving in together,” Russell mentions out of nowhere.

I turn to look at him, surprised and curious about his semi-drunk assertion.

I quickly study his face. His cheeks are reddened and he’s holding back an expectant and hopeful smile, and I can tell that he is excited and proud to tell the table this news.

“Aww, you guys, that’s exciting and so great!” Nina responds. “Are you going to get a dog?”

She knows him well.

So then you do love me.

He leaves early the next morning to travel for work. I sleep for another two hours then rise and make coffee and read my book while sitting on his couch overlooking the ocean.

I feel safe here. My insides are calm.