Always Stayed Faithful

Victoria stepped through the doorway on Nicole’s arm and stopped short. Sunlight spilled across gleaming wood floors, white couches, a view of the ocean that could stop a heart. “Jesus,” she whispered. Nicole laughed softly and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Our home,” she corrected. Victoria had spent ten years in a coma after the crash; she felt like a stranger in her own life. Nicole stayed close, hand warm at the small of her back, and told her everything. How the parents finally relented once they saw Nicole still waiting, still faithful. How nothing had changed for her in all that time. Tears welled in Victoria’s eyes. Nicole wiped one away, then reached under the coffee table. The box was simple. Inside lay photographs, airline stubs, hospital receipts: the slow record of years gone by. At the bottom, two thin gold bands lay tangled together, faintly scratched from the wreckage. Nicole lifted them. “They found them in the car. I kept them safe.” Victoria’s breath caught. Their eyes met. The room felt charged, skin prickling. Nicole’s thumb traced the inside of Victoria’s wrist. “Do you want this?” she asked. Victoria answered without words—lips parted, chest rising fast—then she said yes, low and certain. They moved together in silence, shedding clothes as if years could be discarded just as easily, fingers searching, tongues slow, mouths hot. Every gasp felt like a new beginning. Every touch meant they were alive.