Love Hangover.

0018

*Read this after Coming Home To Love.

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I woke up to filtered morning light and my left leg wrapped around his waist… the big spoon, just how he liked it. And for a moment I didn’t move. I laid there, feeling the rise and fall of his back against my bare chest, the warmth of his body against mine. I felt so relaxed and loved all over. Like I had too much wine, except the only thing I was drunk on was him.

I shifted slightly, and his hand tightened around my thigh, pulling me closer even as he slept. A smile tugged at my lips. My baby.

Last night’s memories drifted back to me in scattered fragments, each one more delicious than the last.

The note on the door. Yellow sticky paper pressed against dark wood. “I can’t wait to see you 🤎.” My heart fluttered right there in the hallway before I even made it inside.

And then the door opened. Him standing there in that navy sweater I loved, sleeves rolled up, like he’d been hard at work. The way his eyes glistened when they found mine.

“Hi,” I smiled, my words came out so soft, so small.

“Hi,” he said back, and there was something in his voice that made my knees weak.

I carefully untangled myself from his warm grip, easing out from beneath the sheets and leaving him lost in sleep. The cool hardwood met my bare feet, a quiet reminder of just how crisp this February morning was — a sharp contrast to the warmth I’d left behind in that bed. I paused, scanning the floor until my eyes found his sweater, that was stripped greedily from his body the night before. I lifted it slowly, bringing it to my face for just a moment before pulling it over me, and letting the scent of him swallow me whole.

I nearly floated into the kitchen, running my hand along the wall as I went, still feeling half-asleep, half in a dream. The apartment was quiet except for the distant hum of the city waking up outside.

I started the coffee, watching it drip into the pot. My body felt pleasantly sore, like I’d run a marathon or danced for hours. Maybe I had. We’d definitely danced. I’d for sure been kissed over every inch of my body.

I opened the kitchen drawer for a spoon and there was the chamomile tea, right where one last note had been tucked.

I love the way your lips meet your mug when you drink your nighttime tea 🤎

Only we didn’t make tea last night. We had wine instead. Red, full-bodied, poured into glasses we never finished because we’d gotten distracted.

I picked up the note, adding it to the collection already living in my purse. Evidence. Proof that last night had been real.

“The reservation,” I said, even though I didn’t want to move from where we were standing, his forehead against mine, his hands on my waist.

“The reservation,” he echoed, but he didn’t let go either.

We stood there, caught up in the tension of knowing we should leave but not wanting to. The clock had said 7:15. Then 7:20.

“What if we didn’t go?” I finally asked.

The smile that had spread across his face had been worth every penny of that lost reservation.

“Best Valentine’s Day ever,” he murmured, already pulling out his phone to cancel.

I poured two cups of coffee, adding cream to mine the way I liked it. I left his dark—the only way he’d drink it.

Carrying both mugs, I made my way back to the bedroom. He was awake now, propped up on one elbow, watching the doorway like he’d been waiting for me to come back.

“Is that my shirt?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“Oh, you mean our shirt?” I giggled, handing him his coffee and sliding back into bed beside him.

He pulled me close with his free arm, and I settled against him, my head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Good morning,” he murmured into my hair with a kiss.

“Good morning, baby.”

We’d ordered Italian around eight. Classic spaghetti and meatballs and shrimp scampi. We ate straight from the containers, sitting on the floor in front of his sofa with our legs tangled together.

“This is better than sitting in any restaurant,” I’d said, stealing a bite from his container.

“Way better,” he agreed, feeding me a buttery shrimp.

Right after we finished, he put on my favorite record—the one I loved, the one I always closed my eyes to—and pulled me up to dance. There in his living room, with no one watching, no dress code, no reservation time to worry about.

I rested my head on his shoulder, and we swayed together, quietly absorbing the love in melodic form of D’Angelo’s “Lady”.

“I can’t believe you’re real,” he whispered against my temple.

“I’m real,” I promised. “I’m right here.”

“What are you thinking about?” he asked now, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my thigh.

“Last night,” I said honestly.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I tilted my head up to look at him. “I have a love hangover.”

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. “A love hangover?”

“You know that feeling when you wake up after the best night of your life and your body’s still processing everything that happened? Like you’re still drunk on it?”

His smile softened, his hand coming up to cup my face. “Yeah. I know that feeling.”

“That’s what this feels like… like I’m drunk on you.”

He set his coffee on the nightstand and pulled me fully into his arms, rolling toward me so that I was tucked beneath him, his weight pressing me into the mattress in the best way.

“Good,” he murmured, his lips finding mine. “Stay drunk.”

Later, when the dancing ended and the record stopped spinning, we found ourselves on the floor, lying side-by-side, staring at the ceiling.

“I don’t want this night to end,” I whispered.

“It doesn’t have to,” he said, turning his head to look at me. “We have all the time in the world.”

And I believed him. I believed that this, us, wasn’t just for one night. It was the beginning of all the nights to come.

He kissed me there on the floor, slow and deep, and I felt it everywhere. In my toes. In my fingertips. In the deepest part of my chest where love had taken root and refused to let go.

Now, in the morning light, with his arms around me and his lips on mine, I didn’t want the love hangover to leave me.

This was just what newness of falling in love felt like. Overwhelming. Intoxicating. All-consuming. It left me breathless and completely, utterly full.

I’d spent so long being careful, so long protecting my heart, so long convincing myself that this kind of love wasn’t meant for me. And now here I was, drowning in it, and I didn’t want to come up for air.

“I love you,” I said against his mouth, needing to say it again, needing him to hear it as many times as I could give it to him.

“I love you more,” he whispered back, the same words from the sticky note, the same words from last night, the same words that had become our truth.

We stayed just like that, wrapped up in each other, the coffee going cold on the nightstand, the morning stretching out before us with no reservations to keep, no place to be except right here.

In the foyer, my shoes were still by the door where I’d kicked them off last night, my toes having done that little wiggle he loved. On the record shelf, the vinyl sat waiting to be played again. In the kitchen drawer, the chamomile tea waited for tonight, for the next time my lips would meet the mug and he’d watch me like I was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

And in my purse, in the living room where I’d dropped it last night, four yellow sticky notes with crooked hearts that rested like love letters.

And a love hangover that I wore so proudly.