Arrival
Nothing about the day feels momentous.
That's how I know it is.
The morning starts with sunlight spilling across the kitchen floor, the smell of coffee, Elliot humming—badly—as he reads the news. I watch him from the doorway, this man who once ruled rooms now content to argue with a stubborn coffee machine.
"You know," I say, "for someone who negotiated billion-dollar deals, you're losing a battle with a filter."
He looks up, unoffended. "It's rigged against me."
I laugh. He smiles like that's the victory.
We host dinner that night.
Friends. Colleagues. No press. No optics.
Maya brings dessert. Lucas—now harmless, friendly—brings wine and a raised eyebrow that says well played.
Elliot moves easily through the room. Not commanding. Present.
At one point, Maya leans toward me. "You're different," she says.
"Better?" I ask.
"Grounded," she replies.
I like that more.
Later, when the apartment is quiet again, Elliot joins me on the balcony.
"I used to think arrival meant the top," he says. "The final rung."
"And now?"
"And now I think it means peace," he says. "With someone who doesn't need me to be larger than life."
I turn to him. "You never had to be."
He takes my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles. No ownership. Just affection.
"I don't know what the future looks like," he says.
I smile. "Good. Neither do I."
We stand there, city lights glowing, two lives no longer colliding—but aligning.
Not because of a deal.
Not because of power.
Because we chose each other.
Every day.
THE END.