Chase

Two years into our relationship, I'm in Chase's apartment for the first time. Now it's my home. It's stylish: dark tones, minimalist design—in Chase's own style. A sniper rifle hangs on the wall. Apparently, it's a part of his life he doesn't like to talk about. We're sitting in the living room, watching an action movie. Chase, in a black T-shirt and jeans, is relaxed, but I can feel his composure, as if he's ready to jump up at a moment's notice. I rest my head on his shoulder, and he hugs me—warmly and calmly. A motorcycle chase is on the screen. Chase chuckles, "Those bikes are so stupid. The brakes are terrible." I tease, "And you, of course, would have driven faster?" He grins, "I wouldn't have let them catch me." I laugh and involuntarily inhale the scent of his perfume—the very one I like. I quickly turn away: I can’t show my reaction, otherwise he’ll get cocky. The movie ends. Chase takes a sip of coffee and puts the cup down. I decide: “Are you… really glad that I’m here now?” He looks at me seriously: “Yes.” I’m irritated: “Is that all? Just a ‘yes’?” Chase sighs: “Len, I’m not a good talker. But if you didn’t want to, you wouldn’t be sitting here.” I snort: “You have a talent for complicating things.” He smiles: “But you are a master at simplifying everything. And arguing with me.” “I’m not arguing!” I protest without malice. “I’m defending my point of view!” Chase laughs: “Of course. Whatever you say.” He stands by the window: “Let’s unpack your things now. Before you forget where the boxes are.”