You’re Allowed to Stay

Contains mature relationship themes.

***

My phone vibrates against the bedside table. I’m not even fully awake.

6:12 a.m.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed then I reach for it. More out of habit than concern. The screen lights up.

It’s the reminder I set last night. Leave by 6:30. I stare at it longer than necessary. Then just swipe it away. I shouldn’t have stayed this late. That’s on me. I told myself I’d leave right after. That I’d be efficient about it. But efficiency slips when you’re tired and warm and no one is rushing you out the door.

Now the room feels slow in that dangerous way… like time has thickened around the edges.

I stand and start dressing quickly. Shirt first. Then trousers. I move with purpose. Threading my arms through sleeves, checking the time again.

Twelve minutes.

Plenty.

If I don’t get pulled into anything unnecessary.

The bed shifts behind me. “You’re up early,” they say, voice rough. They’re still half-asleep.

“Yeah… I’ve got somewhere to be.”

My bag is by the chair where I left it. Zipped and ready. Keys inside the side pocket, phone charger wrapped neatly around itself.

I like knowing my exits are prepared in advance. It keeps things clean.

I glance at my phone again. Then, I sling the strap over my shoulder. A new message has come in. I preview it on the lock screen: Don’t forget… presentation at eight.

I exhale.

Right.

That.

“Coffee?” they offer, pushing up onto one elbow. “I can put some on.”

I decline. “Nah. I’m good.”

Coffee implies sitting. Sitting implies conversation. Conversation implies context. I’ve learned where those roads lead.

They watch me for a moment and I can feel it. The way you can feel someone’s attention even when you’re not facing them?

Yeah.

It’s not heavy. That’s the problem. There’s no expectation I can push against.

“You always leave fast,” they say.

It’s an observation.

Not an accusation.

But why does it land anyway?

I pause.

My fingers tighten briefly around the strap of my bag.

“I’ve got an early day,” I say.

Again.

Reasonable.

Sufficient.

They sit up fully now. Sheets gathered loosely around their waist and the morning light leaks through the blinds.. They look ordinary like this. Real. That makes it harder than it should be.

“I know,” they say. “You always do.”

I check the time again. 6:18.

“I should go,” I say as I step toward the door.

They don’t follow me. But when I reach for the handle, they speak. “You’re allowed to stay, if you want.”

My hand stops inches from the knob.

The sentence isn’t framed like a question. No upward lilt at the end. No softening laugh to disguise it as a joke. It’s offered plainly, then released, as if it doesn’t need defending.

I turn slowly.

They’re not watching me closely now. Their gaze has drifted to the window. To the pale light creeping higher. It’s as if the statement exists independently of my response, complete whether I take it or not.

“I can’t,” I say automatically. “I… really don’t have time.”

They nod once. “Okay.”

Just like that. No counterargument. No persuasion. The simplicity of it throws me off more than resistance would have.

My phone vibrates again. This time? It’s a call. I glance down at the name then flip the screen face-down without answering.

It will go to voicemail.

It always does.

“I should go,” I repeat, because repetition feels like momentum.

They stand and cross the room, stopping a few steps away. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to be present.

“…you may think this is about time,” they say.

“Then what is it about?”

They meet my eyes then. Steady. Calm.

“I think you leave because it’s easier than finding out what happens if you don’t.”

The words hit hard. Harder than the invitation did.

“That’s not—” I start, then stop. I don’t know what I wanted to say. That I’m busy? That I’m careful? That I don’t get attached?

None of it sounds convincing out loud. My phone vibrates again. Then again. I don’t pick it up.

“I don’t do this,” I say instead. “Staying. It’s not part of the deal.”

They tilt their head slightly. “We never made a deal.”

They’re right. There was no agreement. No rules spoken into existence. Just patterns I introduced and they stepped into. Trusting I knew where they led.

“I need to leave now,” I say, more sharply than I mean to.

They step aside, clearing the path to the door. The gesture is small, intentional.

An opening.

“I’m not stopping you,” they say. “I just wanted you to know… you don’t have to run every time.”

Run.

I glance at the clock. 6:24.

If I stay even five minutes longer? I’ll be late. Late becomes apologizing. Apologizing becomes explanations I don’t want to give. There will be consequences. There always are.

I reach down and pick up my phone. I stare at the missed calls, the messages stacking up. I could still make it work. I could rush. I could smooth it over.

Or I could not.

My bag slips from my shoulder. I set it down against the wall. It makes a soft sound when it hits the floor… final in a way I didn’t anticipate.

They don’t smile. Don’t move closer. They just watch, like they did before, letting the moment decide itself.

I type a message quickly, without thinking too hard about the words: Running late. Will join remotely. I hit send before I can reconsider.

The phone goes quiet.

I sit on the edge of the bed. My heart is beating harder than it should for such a small rebellion. The room hasn’t changed, but my place in it has. I’m no longer in motion. No longer halfway out.

They sit beside me, leaving a careful distance between us.

Neither of us speaks.

Somewhere, plans are unfolding exactly as intended.

I stay long enough for mine to break.