The conversations come easier now.

Not rehearsed,

not heavy—

just two people

who’ve learned what not to say,

and when silence is a kindness.

We still move through our sets like ritual—

chalked hands, rolled sleeves,

bodies remembering

what it feels like

to carry weight

that doesn’t come from grief.

And lately,

in the space between reps,

we talk.

About sleep.

About faith we outgrew.

Which songs ache.

Why healing never keeps pace.

She never asks for more than I’m ready to give.

But that night,

as the gym emptied out,

she leaned against the mirror,

and I caught a trace of vanilla—

the same scent from that bar in December,

when she saw through me

and didn’t flinch.

“How are the boys?”

Just that.

No edge.

No angle.

Like asking meant:

I know they matter most—

and I want to see the part of you

most people never touch.

“They’re wild,” I say.

All three—

noise and motion and need.

The youngest is thriving.

The middle’s a daredevil,

but kind.

And the oldest—

he’s already rewriting the world

to test what holds.

She doesn’t laugh.

Doesn’t rush.

Just listens.

Like fatherhood is sacred

even from a distance.

She never asks to meet them.

But somehow,

she honors them

just by listening.

“You’re doing right by them,”

she says.

And it lands

somewhere in me

that used to only hold doubt.

And for the first time,

I don’t argue.

On the way home,

windows down, music low,

I think—

maybe this is what trust looks like now:

someone who asks

about what you protect the most,

and never once tries to take it.

Just honors it.

In every way they can.

 

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God, Undressed