If We Get There

The air between us was thick with unspoken words. Over the past few weeks, the warmth and rhythm of my relationship with Matthew had woven itself into my days—his voice was a comfort, his presence a steady hand, and his affection a slow-burning fire I’d grown to crave. Every look he gave me now felt a little longer, every kiss a little deeper. But he never rushed. He always waited.

That night, we were curled up on his couch, a slow jazz record playing softly in the background. The lights were dim, casting a golden glow around the room. He had cooked dinner again—simple, delicious, thoughtful. He always remembered the way I liked my vegetables just slightly crisp and my wine barely chilled. I was nestled into him, his arm around me, his fingers tracing light patterns on my shoulder.

He kissed the top of my head, then my temple, and finally, gently, my lips. When he pulled back, his gaze was steady, earnest.

“I want to talk to you about something,” he said, his voice low and careful, like he didn’t want to spook me.

I turned slightly to face him, resting my hand on his chest. “I’m listening.”

“I want to be physically intimate with you.” He didn’t flinch when he said it. His eyes stayed on mine, clear and kind. “I think about it. A lot. But I also know that it’s your choice. Entirely. I can wait as long as you need. I want to make sure you feel safe. Desired. Never pressured.”

The honesty of it warmed me, made my throat tighten. There was something about a man who could confess his longing without making it about himself—who could hold his hunger and still put my comfort first.

He chuckled, running a hand through his stunning salt-and-pepper hair. “I’m a grown man. I can control myself. You’re not the first woman I’ve been with... but you are the first woman in a very long time who’s made me think about forever.”

His words lingered between us, soft and powerful. I swallowed hard, touched beyond words.

“I appreciate how you’ve handled everything,” I said. “It means more than you know.”

He leaned in and kissed me again—slow, aching, full of everything he hadn’t yet said with his body. When he pulled back, he smiled.

“I’ve been thinking about what forever could look like… and I’ve, uh… looked into engagement rings.”

My heart skipped.

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “Not saying I’m proposing tomorrow. But I want to understand what you like, what matters to you. I don’t want to get this wrong, if and when we get to that point.”

I smiled, a mix of nerves and affection bubbling up in me. “Something simple. Elegant, not flashy. I don’t need anything big or bold… just something that feels like us.”

He nodded slowly, processing, thoughtful as ever. Then he looked back at me and asked, “What would your budget request be? What’s too much… or too little?”

I laughed softly. “If you spent $500 or less, I’d be perfectly happy. It’s not about a price tag for me. I don’t need a ring to make a statement—I just need to know the heart behind it.”

He raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering in his eyes. “And what if I spent fifteen thousand on it?”

I blinked. “Matthew…”

“I’m not saying I would,” he said quickly, holding his hands up in surrender. “I just want to know how you’d feel. Hypothetically.”

“I’d say… you don’t need to go big or go bankrupt to prove anything to me. You’ve already done more than enough just by showing up. With honesty. With love.”

He smiled, that slow, thoughtful smile that always made my chest ache. “Good. Because I’m not trying to impress you with money. I’m trying to build a life with you.”

The words sat heavy in the air, warm and sure.

We sat in silence for a while after that, wrapped in each other, letting the music carry our thoughts. When his hand found mine again, it wasn’t just about touch—it was about promise.

This wasn’t about a ring or a night of passion.

This was about choosing each other—slowly, deliberately, with open hearts.