I don't remember falling asleep.
All I remember is waking up to the soft sound of Nina's breathing against my chest, her hair a tangled halo between us, her legs still tangled with mine like she never wanted to let go.
For the first time in a long time, I didn't move.
I didn't check my phone.
I didn't think about work or responsibilities or the dozens of things I usually let ruin moments like this.
I just stared at her.
At her perfect face — so peaceful, so real — no walls, no pretense.
The morning light slipping through the curtains kissed her bare shoulder, painting her skin gold.
I couldn't help myself — I reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, my fingers barely touching her.
She stirred a little but didn't wake.
I smiled.
God, she looked beautiful.
For a second, I thought about waking her up with kisses, starting again where we left off.
But somehow, it felt better just holding her like this — knowing she chose to stay, to fall asleep here with me, wrapped in my arms, without the need for words or promises.
Maybe this was what love really felt like — not just the fire and the passion — but the quiet afterward, the way your heart settles into someone else's rhythm.
Eventually, Nina opened her eyes — slowly, lazily, like a cat waking up from a sunbath — and looked at me.
She smiled, small and sleepy.
"Hey," she whispered.
"Hey," I whispered back.
For a few moments, we just stared at each other, smiling like idiots.
Then Nina buried her face in my chest, letting out a little happy sigh that vibrated against my skin.
"Should we get going?" I asked, not wanting to but knowing we probably had to.
She groaned dramatically.
"Do we have to?"
I laughed, kissing the top of her head.
"As much as I want to stay here forever, we'll probably get charged extra for late checkout."
"Ugh," she grumbled, but I could feel her smile against my chest.
We eventually dragged ourselves out of bed.
I pulled on my jeans and shirt from last night, still rumpled and carrying the faint scent of her perfume.
Nina wrapped herself in the hotel's white bathrobe, her hair messy but beautiful in a way that made me want to undress her all over again.
As she gathered her things, I watched her — memorizing the way she moved, the little half-smile on her lips, the way she hummed under her breath while tying her robe.
It hit me, sharp and deep — I loved her.
I loved her in ways I couldn't even name.
We checked out of the hotel holding hands like teenagers sneaking out of trouble, trying not to laugh as the desk clerk gave us a knowing look.
The drive home was quiet but comfortable.
Nina leaned her head against the passenger window, her bare legs curled up on the seat, her eyes half-closed as she watched the world blur past.
Every once in a while, I'd glance over at her and smile without meaning to.
I felt different.
Like something had shifted between us last night — not just physically, but something deeper, unspoken.
When we pulled into the driveway, I cut the engine but neither of us moved for a moment.
Nina finally turned to look at me, her eyes soft.
"Thank you," she said.
I blinked, confused.
"For what?"
She smiled shyly.
"For last night. For not giving up on me."
I didn't know what to say, so I just reached across the console and tucked another piece of her hair behind her ear.
"I'll never give up on you," I said simply.
And I meant it.
God, I meant it more than anything I'd ever said in my life.
Inside, the house smelled like fresh laundry and sunlight.
The windows were open, the spring air making the curtains dance a little.
Nina kicked off her shoes at the door and wandered barefoot into the living room, her robe swishing around her legs.
I followed, watching her, my heart thudding hard in my chest.
She turned, catching me staring.
"What?"
I shrugged, smiling.
"Nothing. Just… you're beautiful."
She laughed — that real, melodic laugh I hadn't heard in so long — and my heart damn near exploded.
Nina walked over to the couch and flopped down, pulling her legs under her like a kid.
She patted the cushion next to her.
"Come here."
I obeyed, sitting down close enough to feel her warmth.
For a long moment, we just sat there in silence, the only sounds the creak of the house settling and the distant chirp of birds outside.
Finally, Nina broke the silence.
"Last night… it wasn't just about the sex for me," she said quietly, not looking at me.
"I know," I said immediately.
"Me neither."
She turned her face toward me, her eyes glistening.
"It felt like… like coming home."
I reached for her hand, lacing our fingers together.
"It was."
Nina smiled through her tears and leaned her head on my shoulder.
We stayed like that for what felt like forever — just breathing each other in, our hearts beating in the same quiet rhythm.
I didn't know what the future held.
I didn't know if we'd get it right, or if the past would come back to haunt us, or if love was ever enough to fix everything.
But in that moment, none of it mattered.
All that mattered was her — warm and real and mine.
She shifted slightly, looking up at me.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
I kissed her forehead.
"Me too."
"But I don't want to be scared anymore," she whispered.
"Then don't," I said, my voice thick.
"Be brave with me."
She smiled, that beautiful, broken, perfect smile, and nodded.
"Okay," she whispered.
And just like that, we weren't just two broken people trying to hold on anymore.
We were something new.
Something whole.
We spent the rest of the day curled up on the couch — talking, kissing, laughing at stupid TV shows, eating leftover pizza straight from the box.
No big declarations.
No grand promises.
Just quiet, ordinary love.
And somehow, it felt more extraordinary than anything else in the world.
When night fell again, and I carried her up to bed, Nina looked up at me with those big, trusting eyes, and for the first time since I met her, I realized:
She wasn't just my choice.
She was my only choice.
And somehow, she had chosen me too.
And in a world full of illusions, this — us — was finally something real.