We’re lying on the floor in the middle of a room cluttered with boxes and scraps of packing tape. The air smells faintly of dust and the cheap pizza we devoured at midnight, too tired to heat up anything decent. The scratchy bargain-bin rug I insisted on buying digs into my shoulder blades, but I don’t care. I’m sprawled across Hank like he’s the softest blanket in the world, his chest rising steadily beneath me, like a metronome. I listen to his heartbeat—slow, stubborn. I trace a finger along his cheek. There’s stubble, too short to be a beard but sharp enough to scratch. I press a kiss into the little dimple on his cheek, and he smiles—a smile so tired it almost breaks me. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispers, but his voice has a crack in it, like glass under pressure. Outside, I hear the screech of a late-night bus, its brakes whining. The old house groans, pipes humming, and a draft rustles the scraps of newspaper I tried to tape over the window cracks. I wonder: what if we don’t figure it out? What if this city is too big, the job too hard, and we’re too fragile? But then his arms tighten around me, strong and steady, smelling faintly of metal—leftovers from fixing the car earlier. “You’re my home,” I say softly, not really expecting him to hear. But he does. He pulls me closer, holding on like I might slip away, and answers: “And you’re my fortress.” In that moment, everything—empty boxes, this strange city, all our doubts—disappears. It’s just us, two people who won’t give up…🤎💜 - @hank_hancy