I never once imagined I would be planning my future with any of my past boyfriends, but here I am sitting down with Julian, listening to Johnny Orlando, and reminiscing about our childhoods.
I was drowning then
Turns out I was in the shallow end
And I had no reason why
Yeah, tossed and turned all night
Wish I wouldn't let the bed bugs bite me
I let nightmares run my mind
This song, Phobias, just spoke to me in a way that's untellable, really. My entire dating history had been an exhausting performance fueled by self-imposed phobias. The fear of being abandoned, the fear of being boring, the fear of not being enough—these were the "bed bugs" I'd let bite me, causing me to toss and turn through relationships built on sand. I thought I was navigating deep, treacherous currents, when in reality, I was just splashing frantically in the shallow end of manufactured emotional drama.
Now, sitting next to Julian, poring over floor plans and budgeting spreadsheets, the only feeling was a quiet, profound certainty. The only current was the one pulling us gently forward.
We were at Julian's place, the archivist's sanctuary, because his organizational system made sense for this task. Spread across his large wooden table were documents that represented our commitment: a detailed cost-of-living comparison for two different neighborhoods, a color-coded Excel spreadsheet tracking our combined debt (Julian had insisted on transparent full disclosure, treating our finances like a delicate historical ledger), and printouts of apartment listings.
This task—merging our two wildly disparate lives—was the true test of our stability. It required vulnerability far deeper than the physical intimacy we had shared. It required merging my chaotic, emotionally driven existence with his precise, archival world.
"Okay," Julian said, tapping a polished pencil on a row in the spreadsheet. "I've flagged this line item: 'Brian's Miscellaneous Art Supplies.' It has a weight-to-volume ratio that seems disproportionate to its projected utility."
I felt the familiar, faint prickle of defensiveness, but it was quickly neutralized by the tenderness in his voice. He wasn't judging; he was simply cataloging the facts.
"The 'Miscellaneous Art Supplies,'" I explained, trying to sound calm, "include my clay, my forgotten canvases, and the box of glitter I keep for emergencies. They are not 'miscellaneous,' Julian; they are the physical manifestation of my potential."
Julian looked up, his glasses catching the lamplight. "Understood. The category will be relabeled 'Tangible Assets of Potential.' However, if we take the three-bedroom option, the third room will need to be solely dedicated to the preservation of fragile manuscripts—which includes your art. My only non-negotiable is that the humidity levels must remain stable for the papers."
"So, the third room is the Archival/Creation Suite," I summarized, already liking the sound of it. "And you promise not to cross-reference my emergency glitter with your 19th-century map collection?"
"I promise to maintain a strict internal barrier between the two assets," he confirmed, offering a small, eye-crinkling smile. "I'm not trying to merge your collection, Brian. I'm trying to ensure both of our worlds have the appropriate conditions to thrive."
We talked for hours about the minutiae that defined our different styles: my preference for soft, warm lighting versus his need for focused task lighting; my instinctive love of chaos versus his intellectual appreciation of order. In every negotiation, Julian's response wasn't a compromise of equal parts, but an act of stabilization. He didn't ask me to give up my chaos; he built a framework around it so it wouldn't collapse.
The conversation naturally drifted away from logistics and into the terrifying terrain of emotional futures. We were looking at a listing for a quaint house with a small backyard.
"Imagine putting down roots," Julian mused, his finger tracing the boundary line on the screen. "That's the ultimate long-term commitment. It's the moment the document transitions from a temporary loan to a permanent acquisition."
"It's terrifying," I admitted, resting my head on his shoulder. "I've spent my whole life being ready for the eviction notice. I'm afraid to invest in 'permanent' because I'm convinced the moment I get comfortable, the whole thing will be condemned."
I leaned back, finally articulating the real fear—the ultimate "phobia" that had governed my life.
"I'm scared I'll wake up one day, Julian, and the 'real as pain' part of me will sabotage the 'safe as home' part of you," I confessed, my voice raw. "I'm scared I'll relapse into the drama because I don't know how to trust simple happiness."
Julian turned fully to face me, taking my hands in his. He didn't offer empty reassurance. He offered commitment.
"Brian, I saw you at the gala with Leo," he said firmly. "Leo was offering you a hit of that cheap adrenaline, that rhythm you were addicted to. And you chose the stillness. You chose me, and more importantly, you chose yourself. That decision is the cornerstone of our future."
He continued, his eyes earnest. "My profession is about reading the subtle evidence, Brian. And the evidence of your commitment is overwhelming. You are not drowning in the shallow end anymore. You have learned to stand on solid ground. And I am right here, on that same ground, not as your lifeguard, but as your partner. If you waver, I'll be the anchor. I'm not going anywhere."
This quiet, unwavering certainty was the ultimate aphrodisiac. It demolished the last shred of performance anxiety I held. The future wasn't a threat; it was a collaborative project.
The shift happened with the quiet elegance that only Julian could orchestrate. He didn't rush; he simply let go of the spreadsheet, letting the logistics of the future fall away in favor of the emotional reality of the present.
He reached up and gently tilted my head toward him, initiating a slow, deep kiss that was full of the promise we had just cemented. The kiss was not frantic with desire, but weighty with commitment—a physical manifestation of the trust we'd built over floor plans and budgets.
"The most valuable things," Julian murmured against my lips, "are the ones that feel completely natural, completely right."
His hands moved with the same careful, reverent precision they used on fragile documents. As he unbuttoned my shirt, his touch was slow and deliberate, each movement affirming the safety we shared. There was no haste, no anxiety, just the beautiful focus of two people completely present.
When we finally moved to the bedroom, the intimacy was deeper and more profound than the first time. The first night had been about shedding my armor and proving that safety and intensity could coexist. Tonight was about confirming the permanence. Every touch was a signature on the contract of our future.
As we lay tangled, skin against skin, the feeling wasn't the pain-as-realness I used to crave, but a deep, resonant hum of peace. I buried my face in his shoulder, inhaling the comforting scent of cedar and cinnamon, and the thought that flashed through my mind was utterly devoid of phobias: I am home. This is the place where I don't have to pretend.
Later, as the moonlight traced patterns on the wall, Julian shifted, his arm pulling me tightly against him. I felt the steady, protective weight of his presence. I opened my eyes and looked at the clock: 2:00 a.m. No panic, no sweating, no waiting for the ghost of the Hunter to wake me up. The "bed bugs" were gone; the nightmares had run away.
I was no longer drowning, not even in the shallow end. I was floating, completely supported by the strong, stable current of Julian's love and my own hard-won peace.
I closed my eyes and whispered a soft vow into the darkness. "I'm ready for the three-bedroom," I said. "And I'm ready for the forever."
Julian didn't ask what I meant. He just squeezed me once, a final, anchoring affirmation. "I'll draw up the final offer letter in the morning," he whispered back, his voice thick with sleep and contentment.