On Friday night, I was at a birthday party on the other end of the city where the drink of the night was very little more than gin mixed with champagne. Pup was out on a date with a new partner he seems to like a lot, and it was half past midnight when he texted me to see if I was still out. “I can be there by 1:30,” he wrote back when I confirmed I was. “I’ll pick you up.”

A little emboldened by the cocktail that was supposed to be served in a champagne flute and that we’d all been gulping back from tumblers, by the time Pup arrived I was flirting with a guy friend of mine. And I can’t begin to explain the strange comfort of watching him come through the door, of feeling his hand on my shoulder, of knowing we were going to go sleep and wake up together.

And, yeah, I kept hitting on the guy, because you know me.

He woke me the next morning by pulling me into him and speaking gently into my ear. I’d briefly forgotten in my sleep that he had come over, and to hear his voice and feel him there was such a strange relief. I feel at peace in his presence, it’s a great thing.

And for all the getting tied up and the awesome sex and the threesomes, that’s my favorite thing that’s happened in my bed. Waking up groggy and a little hungover and remembering he was there, too.