My Rebel Boy puts me on the floor and kisses me. This kiss, like all the ones since we made up, feels somehow special. There is no trace of roughness, resentment, or coldness. Only warmth. Only certainty, as if he knows that now, only tenderness is directed at me. I feel that he cherishes me. Values me.
I still marvel at how much he has changed since our last conversation. Back then, in that improvised ring, where we used truth as our arguments instead of fists—honest, sometimes cruel, tearful—we laid everything out to each other. Every grievance, every layer of accumulated silence, every broken expectation. Honestly, I thought that as soon as we returned to the apartment, everything would go back to how it was—the heaviness that hung in the air before I left. The coldness, the distance, the silence with its underlying tension. But… no. Max really has changed and truly decided to change his life. Change it—for us. For me. For our daughter. Now we are in a real, living relationship. Not chaos, not guessing games, not catching up. Something real, warm, full of meaning, and of soft, mature love.
Even though we already have a daughter, tonight, for the first time, I feel: we are really a family.
"You missed me especially today," he says with a tender smile, looking at me as if he sees everything—my fears, my joy, and the things I don't say out loud.
I press myself to him, hugging him tight. I bury my forehead in his chest, where his heart beats steadily, confidently, with a kind of almost magical calm. This rhythm—soothing, like a lullaby, not for the body but for my soul. It says: "You are safe." It says: "I'm here." And in these seconds, I can finally drop my inner armor—the one I almost always wear. And just be—small, tired, but loved.
Becoming a mother at nineteen… It is hard. Not physically—mentally. Sometimes unbearably. I still feel like a child—with dreams, with uncertainty, with fear of making a mistake. I try to act grown-up, to be strong, but inside… inside I tremble. I don't know if I can do it. Don't know if I can endure. And most of all, I fear letting someone down. Hurting Mary. My little one. My daughter. She is so tender, so defenseless, so dependent… in essence, she has only me. Only me—her mother, her support, her whole world.
Grandma… She has been more than support—she really helps me. And she keeps helping. At first—slightly restrained, I could feel it. She seemed not to fully believe that I could handle it. That I wouldn't run away. That I truly decided to stay and care for my daughter. But despite that, she never refused—neither help nor advice. Not once. She has vast experience—not from books, but real, lived experience. Her words, simple, unadorned, always resonate with me. Always hit the mark.
Now we live far from each other. But I call her every day. Every day. We talk—sometimes long, sometimes very little. She shares advice, and I share little victories. Sometimes we just sit in silence together. And even in this silence, I feel: she is here.
"Katrin?" my beloved calls me, his voice warm, gentle, like a light touch to the soul. He says my name as if caressing it with his lips, as if holding it carefully in his hands, afraid to scare it away.
"Are you okay?" he asks, noticing that I have been silently holding him for more than ten minutes, as if afraid to let go, as if a single movement could break the fragile harmony of the moment. I press my body to him, catching every breath, every heartbeat—they become mine.
"Yes, Max. I just… I relaxed, and it feels so good with you that I don't want to let go," I try to explain, burying my nose in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent, a mix of fresh air and something cozy, homely. This smell always gives a sense of safety, like in childhood, when you hide under a blanket from nighttime fears.
"I don't mind hugs. But I'm tired, and I want to take off my shoes and sit. Shall we continue on the couch?" he suggests, with a tender smile, running his hand through my hair. His touch is light, almost weightless, but it carries so much care that my chest tightens with tenderness.
"Yes, of course," I agree, reluctantly loosening my hug, as if tearing a piece of happiness from myself. "Do you want some coffee? I can make some," I offer, wanting to prolong this moment of warmth and care, to keep a thread between our worlds, even through a cup of hot drink.
"I want you," Rebel Boy says suddenly, and I blush, as if a flame ignites under my skin. His words burn me, and my chest tightens pleasantly. My thoughts flicker aside for a moment, and my heart skips a beat.
"I also want to relax in your arms," he continues, and I realize that perhaps I misunderstood his first phrase… Maybe I am a little perverse, because he meant something else. Or… maybe there is a grain of truth in that too?
Taking off our sneakers, Max and I go to the living room and sit on the couch. He raises his hand, as if inviting me, and I immediately slip under it like a fluffy kitten, seeking warmth, comfort, and a familiar touch. Max just laughs at my playfulness—his laughter is genuine, ringing, and fills the room.
We sit in silence, in each other's arms. Even without words, even just sitting together, it feels incredibly good. This is that rare, precious silence, without awkwardness, only calm. When hearts speak without words, and souls hug tighter than bodies.
"How's our little troublemaker?" Max breaks the silence, his voice soft with fatherly care. I feel warmth spread through me—for him, for us, for what we've become together.
"Her fever is completely gone. I gave her tea with jam, and she fell asleep to cartoons," I reply, recalling how our daughter, quiet and wrapped in a blanket, with sleepy eyes, gently dozed on the bed. The fever wasn't very high, but I didn't want to use medicine—I wanted it to pass softly and peacefully. Everything as she likes it—without rush, with motherly warmth and sweet tea.
"Raspberry, right? Yum-yum, I love it too," he says with a mischievous smile, and I smile back, knowing that in front of me is not just a man—he is my home, my world, my accomplice in all little things.
"There's plenty of it. Grandma, knowing Mary and her tendency to get sick often, stocked up for us back then. So go ahead, don't be shy," I suggest, remembering how he had already reached into the pantry for another jar more than once. My man, like our daughter, is a true sweet tooth. And there is something painfully familiar, simple, and beloved in that.
"Definitely," Rebel Boy agrees contentedly, hugging me tighter, as if saying: "Here it is, my perfect moment. Here and now."
"Katrin, I want to go on a date with you. What do you think, for or against?" Max asks, suddenly becoming unexpectedly serious.
There is a clear worry in his eyes; he watches my reaction closely, as if something very important depends on it. I feel my heart tighten, then spread with a light, aching thrill—he wants "us" again, like at the very beginning.
"I've already said I'm ready to repeat any date," I remind him warmly, remembering those times when everything was just beginning.
"And what will it be? Will you take me to the theater again, like on our first official date?" I ask with interest, raising my eyebrows slightly, my heart already beating faster in anticipation of his answer.
"It will be a date for three," he surprises me, and I freeze for a moment, unsure—whether he is joking or planning a big surprise… My mind races with possibilities. Because whatever he has in mind—I know: it will be a continuation of his playful revenge on me.