Almost Love, Then Everything - Chapter 33: Chapter 33
You are reading Almost Love, Then Everything, Chapter 33: Chapter 33. Read more chapters of Almost Love, Then Everything.
> “Some mornings don’t need promises.
They just need the quiet proof that someone stayed.”
The first thing Leah noticed was the softness.
Not just the blanket or the pillow beneath her cheek—but the warmth pressed gently against her side. The hum of another body’s breath. The echo of heartbeats not just her own.
She stirred slowly, like waking up inside a secret.
Sunlight spilled lazily through the window, golden and slow, warming the room in honey-colored hues. The shadows on the walls swayed faintly with the breeze from the open window, but everything inside felt still.
Safe.
She blinked, letting her eyes adjust, letting the moment settle.
And then she saw Jade.
Still asleep beside her. One hand curled under her cheek, lashes soft against skin, mouth parted just enough to make Leah's breath catch.
The blanket had slipped slightly, revealing her bare shoulder, a constellation of freckles Leah had learned by touch.
And for the first time in a long, long time—maybe ever—Leah didn’t feel the urge to move.
She didn’t want to slip out of bed before things became too real.
She didn’t want to retreat into safety, into solitude, into the habit of leaving before she could be left.
No.
She wanted to stay.
Leah’s eyes drifted over Jade’s face like she was memorizing something important. She took in the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips twitched slightly with dreams, the faint imprint of the pillow on her cheek.
It felt like watching something sacred.
She wondered if Jade dreamed in color.
If she ever dreamed about this—about them.
Jade shifted slightly, her brow creasing for just a moment before smoothing again. Leah held her breath.
Then Jade’s eyes opened, slow and unfocused at first. But they found Leah almost instantly.
A blink.
A breath.
Then: “You’re still here.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a quiet miracle.
Leah nodded. “I didn’t want to leave.”
Jade smiled, sleepy and unguarded. “Good. I didn’t want you to.”
They didn’t speak for a while after that.
Words weren’t needed.
The world outside their bedroom existed—but in that moment, it didn’t matter. The city could buzz, the clocks could tick, the day could call to them with its usual demands.
But none of that touched them.
Not yet.
Leah curled closer, her leg sliding between Jade’s, her fingers drifting up Jade’s arm in lazy spirals. Their bodies fit with the kind of familiarity that didn’t need effort—it just was.
Jade shifted to pull her closer, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of Leah’s head.
Leah closed her eyes, letting that warmth settle into the spaces in her chest that used to ache.
“I’ve never done this before,” she whispered.
“Stayed?” Jade murmured, eyes still closed.
“Stayed. Let myself want this much. Let myself… be known like this.”
Jade’s hand traced patterns across Leah’s back. “Me neither.”
Leah leaned in, her lips brushing Jade’s collarbone. “I used to think it was safer to leave first. To never be the one who wanted more.”
“What changed?”
Leah smiled against her skin. “You.”
They talked, softly, about nothing and everything.
About the way Jade liked her coffee.
About how Leah always needed to sleep with one leg outside the blanket.
About childhood memories, old music, the names of stars.
Jade laughed when Leah admitted she still couldn’t figure out the laundry machine settings.
“I thought you were pretending just so I’d do it,” Jade teased.
“Nope,” Leah grinned. “Completely sincere incompetence.”
Their laughter was light but filled the room like sunlight.
At some point, Jade reached over and grabbed her phone.
“I have something,” she said, scrolling.
Leah watched curiously as Jade pulled up a photo—a blurry shot of the two of them from months ago. They were on the fire escape, mid-laugh, heads tilted toward each other, wine glasses in hand.
“I took this when I was scared,” Jade admitted. “Because I thought… if we broke, at least I’d have proof it was real.”
Leah stared at the screen.
Then at Jade.
And something inside her softened so much it almost broke.
“You never needed proof,” she said. “We were always real.”
“I know,” Jade said. “But I didn’t believe I could be chosen. Not like this.”
Leah cupped her cheek gently. “You are.”
Eventually, hunger crept in, but neither of them wanted to leave the bed.
Jade made the effort to stretch toward the nightstand for a leftover granola bar.
They shared it, one bite at a time, feeding each other in giggles, crumbs falling onto the sheets.
“It’s gourmet,” Leah declared.
“Michelin-star luxury,” Jade agreed.
They kissed, laughing into each other’s mouths, arms tangled, and the morning stretched on like a song with no chorus—just verses of warmth.
Leah rested her head on Jade’s chest again and whispered, “Do you think it’ll always be like this?”
Jade didn’t answer right away.
She ran her fingers through Leah’s hair.
Then said, “Not every day will feel like forever. Some will be loud. Some will be distant. Some will hurt. But I promise—on the ones that don’t feel like this—I’ll still choose you.”
Leah’s throat tightened.
She nodded.
“Then I’ll choose you too.”
It hit her then—the difference between what she used to believe love was, and what it was now.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t desperate.
It wasn’t fear of being alone, or infatuation dressed as fire.
It was calm.
It was consistent.
It was Jade rubbing slow circles on her back when Leah couldn’t sleep.
It was Leah making sure Jade’s glasses were on the nightstand before bed.
It was not having to explain why the silence mattered—because it was shared.
Later that morning, when they finally got out of bed, they padded barefoot into the kitchen.
Leah wore one of Jade’s sweatshirts. Jade made coffee, humming a tune Leah didn’t recognize but liked anyway.
They made breakfast together—burned toast and eggs that stuck to the pan.
It didn’t matter.
Because Jade fed her a bite with her fingers.
Because Leah danced with her in front of the stove.
Because Clementine meowed indignantly from the windowsill, offended they forgot to feed her first.
After breakfast, they curled on the couch with blankets and books. Leah didn’t read a word. She just stared at Jade, tracing her profile like it was a poem she was still trying to learn.
“You’re staring,” Jade said without looking up.
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re here,” Leah said. “And I don’t ever want to forget this version of you. The one who stayed.”
Jade put down her book.
Pulled Leah in by the collar.
And kissed her like the world outside had stopped spinning.
When afternoon came, they opened the windows wider.
The breeze carried in the scent of city air, flowers from a nearby balcony, the occasional honk or laugh from the street below.
But it all felt far away.
Like the real world was this.
This room.
This breath.
This love.
Some mornings don’t make headlines.
They don’t sparkle.
They don’t crash in with fireworks or grand gestures.
They arrive quietly—barefoot and soft-spoken—and leave you different than they found you.
This was one of those mornings.
And Leah, for the first time in her life, wasn’t afraid of it ending.
Because even if it did—
Even if time moved on, and the seasons changed—
She’d carry this with her.
The memory of warmth.
The echo of laughter.
The hum of a body beside her that stayed.
Some mornings aren’t made of time.
They’re made of presence.
And when someone chooses to stay—
That’s the kind of forever that matters most.
They just need the quiet proof that someone stayed.”
The first thing Leah noticed was the softness.
Not just the blanket or the pillow beneath her cheek—but the warmth pressed gently against her side. The hum of another body’s breath. The echo of heartbeats not just her own.
She stirred slowly, like waking up inside a secret.
Sunlight spilled lazily through the window, golden and slow, warming the room in honey-colored hues. The shadows on the walls swayed faintly with the breeze from the open window, but everything inside felt still.
Safe.
She blinked, letting her eyes adjust, letting the moment settle.
And then she saw Jade.
Still asleep beside her. One hand curled under her cheek, lashes soft against skin, mouth parted just enough to make Leah's breath catch.
The blanket had slipped slightly, revealing her bare shoulder, a constellation of freckles Leah had learned by touch.
And for the first time in a long, long time—maybe ever—Leah didn’t feel the urge to move.
She didn’t want to slip out of bed before things became too real.
She didn’t want to retreat into safety, into solitude, into the habit of leaving before she could be left.
No.
She wanted to stay.
Leah’s eyes drifted over Jade’s face like she was memorizing something important. She took in the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips twitched slightly with dreams, the faint imprint of the pillow on her cheek.
It felt like watching something sacred.
She wondered if Jade dreamed in color.
If she ever dreamed about this—about them.
Jade shifted slightly, her brow creasing for just a moment before smoothing again. Leah held her breath.
Then Jade’s eyes opened, slow and unfocused at first. But they found Leah almost instantly.
A blink.
A breath.
Then: “You’re still here.”
It wasn’t a question.
It was a quiet miracle.
Leah nodded. “I didn’t want to leave.”
Jade smiled, sleepy and unguarded. “Good. I didn’t want you to.”
They didn’t speak for a while after that.
Words weren’t needed.
The world outside their bedroom existed—but in that moment, it didn’t matter. The city could buzz, the clocks could tick, the day could call to them with its usual demands.
But none of that touched them.
Not yet.
Leah curled closer, her leg sliding between Jade’s, her fingers drifting up Jade’s arm in lazy spirals. Their bodies fit with the kind of familiarity that didn’t need effort—it just was.
Jade shifted to pull her closer, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of Leah’s head.
Leah closed her eyes, letting that warmth settle into the spaces in her chest that used to ache.
“I’ve never done this before,” she whispered.
“Stayed?” Jade murmured, eyes still closed.
“Stayed. Let myself want this much. Let myself… be known like this.”
Jade’s hand traced patterns across Leah’s back. “Me neither.”
Leah leaned in, her lips brushing Jade’s collarbone. “I used to think it was safer to leave first. To never be the one who wanted more.”
“What changed?”
Leah smiled against her skin. “You.”
They talked, softly, about nothing and everything.
About the way Jade liked her coffee.
About how Leah always needed to sleep with one leg outside the blanket.
About childhood memories, old music, the names of stars.
Jade laughed when Leah admitted she still couldn’t figure out the laundry machine settings.
“I thought you were pretending just so I’d do it,” Jade teased.
“Nope,” Leah grinned. “Completely sincere incompetence.”
Their laughter was light but filled the room like sunlight.
At some point, Jade reached over and grabbed her phone.
“I have something,” she said, scrolling.
Leah watched curiously as Jade pulled up a photo—a blurry shot of the two of them from months ago. They were on the fire escape, mid-laugh, heads tilted toward each other, wine glasses in hand.
“I took this when I was scared,” Jade admitted. “Because I thought… if we broke, at least I’d have proof it was real.”
Leah stared at the screen.
Then at Jade.
And something inside her softened so much it almost broke.
“You never needed proof,” she said. “We were always real.”
“I know,” Jade said. “But I didn’t believe I could be chosen. Not like this.”
Leah cupped her cheek gently. “You are.”
Eventually, hunger crept in, but neither of them wanted to leave the bed.
Jade made the effort to stretch toward the nightstand for a leftover granola bar.
They shared it, one bite at a time, feeding each other in giggles, crumbs falling onto the sheets.
“It’s gourmet,” Leah declared.
“Michelin-star luxury,” Jade agreed.
They kissed, laughing into each other’s mouths, arms tangled, and the morning stretched on like a song with no chorus—just verses of warmth.
Leah rested her head on Jade’s chest again and whispered, “Do you think it’ll always be like this?”
Jade didn’t answer right away.
She ran her fingers through Leah’s hair.
Then said, “Not every day will feel like forever. Some will be loud. Some will be distant. Some will hurt. But I promise—on the ones that don’t feel like this—I’ll still choose you.”
Leah’s throat tightened.
She nodded.
“Then I’ll choose you too.”
It hit her then—the difference between what she used to believe love was, and what it was now.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t desperate.
It wasn’t fear of being alone, or infatuation dressed as fire.
It was calm.
It was consistent.
It was Jade rubbing slow circles on her back when Leah couldn’t sleep.
It was Leah making sure Jade’s glasses were on the nightstand before bed.
It was not having to explain why the silence mattered—because it was shared.
Later that morning, when they finally got out of bed, they padded barefoot into the kitchen.
Leah wore one of Jade’s sweatshirts. Jade made coffee, humming a tune Leah didn’t recognize but liked anyway.
They made breakfast together—burned toast and eggs that stuck to the pan.
It didn’t matter.
Because Jade fed her a bite with her fingers.
Because Leah danced with her in front of the stove.
Because Clementine meowed indignantly from the windowsill, offended they forgot to feed her first.
After breakfast, they curled on the couch with blankets and books. Leah didn’t read a word. She just stared at Jade, tracing her profile like it was a poem she was still trying to learn.
“You’re staring,” Jade said without looking up.
“I know.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re here,” Leah said. “And I don’t ever want to forget this version of you. The one who stayed.”
Jade put down her book.
Pulled Leah in by the collar.
And kissed her like the world outside had stopped spinning.
When afternoon came, they opened the windows wider.
The breeze carried in the scent of city air, flowers from a nearby balcony, the occasional honk or laugh from the street below.
But it all felt far away.
Like the real world was this.
This room.
This breath.
This love.
Some mornings don’t make headlines.
They don’t sparkle.
They don’t crash in with fireworks or grand gestures.
They arrive quietly—barefoot and soft-spoken—and leave you different than they found you.
This was one of those mornings.
And Leah, for the first time in her life, wasn’t afraid of it ending.
Because even if it did—
Even if time moved on, and the seasons changed—
She’d carry this with her.
The memory of warmth.
The echo of laughter.
The hum of a body beside her that stayed.
Some mornings aren’t made of time.
They’re made of presence.
And when someone chooses to stay—
That’s the kind of forever that matters most.
End of Almost Love, Then Everything Chapter 33. Continue reading Chapter 34 or return to Almost Love, Then Everything book page.