Their apartment lit up. Napkins tilted, looking like sails. The fern, Miles, grew unruly. Evelyn poured her own wine—sometimes half, sometimes full. He poured his as he pleased. Choices sat at their table like new guests, welcome precisely because they varied.
One morning, he filled her glass completely and didn’t apologize. “You can want what you want,” he said, steady now. Evelyn raised the glass. “So can you.” Outside, the day was loud and bright. Inside, their love finally breathed without counting, and the room felt like home.