There’s something about seeing her in my clothes that short-circuits my brain a little.
Lord help me.
Because if this is what forever might look like…
I wouldn’t mind at all.
“Of course you do!” Ivy yells at the TV, her voice muffled slightly by the gummy worms she’s crammed into her mouth.
On screen, the female lead has just confessed her love to the clueless guy she’s been best friends with for years. Ivy is completely hooked—eyes wide, body leaning forward like she’s part of the scene. I can’t believe she’s never seen this one.
I’ve seen it at least a dozen times. It’s one of those comfort movies that is predictable and heartwarming, with a slightly cheesy but perfectly satisfying ending. A bookstore meet-cute. A misunderstanding. A grand gesture in the rain. Classic stuff. I’ve always been a sucker for movies like this, though I wouldn’t admit that to just anyone.
But while Ivy’s focused on the screen, I’ve been focused on her.
The way her expressions shift with every scene—how she grins at the banter, bites her lip during the tension, clutches the blanket during the dramatic moments. She’s wrapped up in one of my throw blankets, oversized and soft, pulled up to her chin. My sweatpants and t-shirt still drown her petite frame, and she’s curled into the couch like she belongs there.
We started the movie with a safe stretch of space between us, like two bookends on the same couch. But somewhere along the way, we drifted closer. Now my arm rests behind her, draped along the back of the cushions. I’ve been debating for the last twenty minutes whether to lower it, to let it settle around her shoulders, but I don’t want to make a move she’s not ready for.
Then it happens.
“Oh my gosh, finally!” Ivy says as the couple on screen finally shares a kiss. She tosses the half-empty gummy worm bag onto the coffee table and leans back with a satisfied sigh.
Right into me.
Her shoulder brushes mine. Then her head rests gently in the crook of my arm. My heart skips.
I take the opportunity and ease my arm down, wrapping it around her like it was meant to be there all along.
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.
She just melts into me.
And I swear, I could stay like this forever.
There’s a peace in it. A closeness that’s more than just physical. Her presence calms something restless in me. I’ve never felt so aware of someone else’s breathing, or the warmth of their skin through a borrowed t-shirt.
We stay like that as the final scenes roll out—laughter, reconciliation, the happy ending Ivy was rooting for.
When the credits appear, she turns to look up at me.There’s a single tear trailing down her cheek. I reach up and brush it away with my thumb, gently.
I know exactly what she’s feeling. That ache. That hope. That impossible longing for a love that feels written into your story before you ever saw it coming.
“It was just a movie,” I say softly, even though we both know it was more than that.
She searches my face, and then her gaze drifts to my mouth.
“You can kiss me again if you want,” she whispers.
And I don’t hesitate.
I take her face in my hands and press my lips to hers, not with the calm intensity of the first kiss, but with something deeper—something messier. Frantic, searching, like I need her to know how much she’s starting to mean to me.
She gasps softly against my mouth, and then we’re both lost in it. Moving, adjusting, falling into the kiss like it’s the only thing that makes sense.
“I like kissing you,” I murmur between kisses.
“I like—” she starts, but I catch her mouth before the words can finish. Her laugh is breathless against my lips. “Kissing you too.”
