Skybound Hearts

I hadn’t planned anything.

No itinerary, no packing, not even a whisper of what this trip was going to be. I was swept up in the current of Matthew’s careful planning, his quiet affection, his total attention. He showed up at my front door dressed like he was expecting a casual dinner—and instead, he was standing there, beaming like he held a secret.

“Come with me,” he said softly. “Don’t worry about your things. I’ve got you.”

He wasn’t kidding. My parents, smiling warmly behind him, handed over a neatly packed weekender bag.

“He reached out to us,” my mother said, eyes kind and knowing. “Said he wanted to take care of everything for you. We packed what you’d want, nothing too fancy—just what you’d feel comfortable in.”

I was stunned. Not just by the gesture, but by the thoughtfulness of it. He hadn’t just planned a trip. He had created an experience where I didn’t have to be in control—where I could rest, lean into joy, and let myself be cherished.

Every moment of the getaway was steeped in that energy.

The fancy restaurant, the way he’d gently moved my chair before I sat, the way he paid attention to what I ate and what made me laugh. The way he watched me across the table, like I was something rare—too precious to be rushed.

The massages, the winery—every piece curated not for performance, but for connection. He was unhurried. His hand found mine naturally. His eyes found mine deliberately. And I could feel myself softening in places I’d kept armored for too long.

But it was the balloon ride that held the most weight.

We were up before dawn, the sky barely hinting at gold. He brought coffee, wrapped me in an extra jacket he’d packed just in case, and didn’t let go of my hand as we drove through winding hills to the launch field.

The balloon itself was massive, beautiful—a vibrant red against the pale morning light. As it lifted, I held tight to the edge of the basket, nerves dancing in my stomach. But then I felt him behind me—his chest pressed to my back, his arms wrapping around my waist, grounding me.

“It’s just us up here,” he murmured. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

I leaned into him. And that’s when I felt it.

Pressed firmly against me—unmistakably, undeniably—his body made its presence known. And I realized two things in one breathless moment: he was aroused, and there was no way he was padding anything.

His voice dipped into something deeper as he held me tighter. “You make me feel so alive,” he said into my ear. “Not just like this. Not just physically. I mean everything. I want to wake up to your laugh. I want to grow old with your stories. I want to build a life that centers around you.”

I turned in his arms, eyes wide with disbelief, emotion crashing over me like the wind around us.

He looked at me like I was the horizon. “I want to spend forever with you. If you’ll have me.”

I couldn’t speak. Not because I didn’t know what to say—but because my whole body felt overwhelmed by the sincerity in his voice, the love in his eyes, the fact that for the first time in a long time, I believed him.

We didn’t kiss then. We just held each other in the sky, hearts loud, the silence around us filled with promise.

Later that night, back at the hotel, he didn’t press for more. He kissed me deeply, his hands reverent but warm as they slid up my back. We laid side by side in our separate beds, talking until sleep stole us, but our fingers met between the space. And somehow, that touch felt more intimate than anything else could have.