My neighbor said, “You seem to be good in bed. Are you married?” And the moment those words left her lips, I knew I’d either found my salvation or my damnation. Her name was Emma Brooks, the woman who’d moved onto the property next to mine 6 months ago. Sun-kissed skin, eyes that held secrets, hands that didn’t know the first thing about ranching, but tried anyway. I’m Jack Carter, the rancher who’d been dead inside for 5 years, going through motions, existing but not living.

Married to a ghost I couldn’t bury. We’d been neighbors for half a year, stealing glances across fence lines, our properties touching, but our worlds separated by grief I couldn’t name and pain she wouldn’t speak. Then came the community barn raising. I was stacking lumber, just trying to get through another day, when my neighbor, this beautiful, terrifying woman who didn’t belong in my broken world, walked up smelling like beer and courage and asked, “You seem to be good in bed.

Are you married?” 50 people froze. The hammer strikes stopped, my heart dead for 5 years, lurched in my chest. I looked at my neighbor, this woman who just asked if I was good in bed, and answered with the only truth I had. No, ma’am. I’m still waiting for her. Waiting for her. I watched Emma’s face flush. Humiliation, confusion, something else I couldn’t name. She thought I meant I was waiting for someone to find, someone to meet, someone living.

But that night, my neighbor followed me, though she didn’t know I’d spotted her headlights in my rear view mirror. She parked in shadows while I walked through the cemetery gates. Watched me kneel at the grave marked Sarah Carter, beloved wife. Watched me break the way I broke every night when no one else could see. Sarah, I whispered to cold marble, my palm pressed against stone that should have been warm skin. Tell me when she’s here. Tell me when I’m allowed to stop waiting.

Because today a woman asked if I was married. And for one second, God, forgive me. I forgot you were gone. The wind carried the smell of cut grass and old flowers. Somewhere behind me, gravel crunched. Emma trying to stay hidden, but I’d learned to hear everything in the silence grief creates. I kept talking to the headstone because maybe she needed to hear this, too. 5 years, baby. 5 years I’ve kept my promise. Haven’t touched another woman. Haven’t wanted to.

Haven’t felt anything but this emptiness where you used to be. My voice cracked. But today, when that woman looked at me, when she asked that question, something woke up. Something I thought died with you in that hospital room. I heard Emma’s sharp inhale from the shadows. Now she knew. Now she understood what I meant by waiting. Is that you? I asked Sarah’s grave. Is that the sign I begged for? Did you send her? Or am I betraying everything we were by even thinking about her?

The marble gave no answers. It never did. I pressed my forehead against Sarah’s name carved into stone and felt tears. I hadn’t let myself cry in months. I’m so tired of being married to a ghost. But I don’t know how to stop. Don’t know how to want someone who can actually feel my touch. Don’t know if I’m allowed. You’re allowed. Emma’s voice cut through the dark. I spun around and there she was, 20 ft away, tears streaming down her face, hands shaking at her sides.

How long have you been standing there? My voice came out rougher than I meant. Long enough to know that when you said you were waiting for her, you meant she gestured at Sarah’s grave. You meant her, your wife, who’s been dead for 5 years. I stood slowly, wiping my face with the back of my hand. I said I wasn’t married. That’s technically true. But you are, Emma said, taking a step closer. You’re married to grief, to guilt, to waiting for a woman who can never give you permission to live again.

You don’t understand. I asked if you were good in bed, Jack. Another step closer. Her voice dropped to barely a whisper. Not because I was drunk and stupid. Because I’ve watched you for 6 months. Watch the way you gentle horses that everyone else has given up on. The way you fix broken things with patient hands. The way you move through the world like you’re carrying something so heavy you’ve forgotten what it feels like to put it down.

She was 10 feet away now. Close enough. I could see mascara smudged under her eyes. Smell the fading scent of her perfume mixed with sawdust from the barn raising. I asked if you were good in bed because I wanted to know if the man I’ve been falling for even exists anymore or if he died with her. The words hit like a physical blow. Emma. And you said you were waiting for her, like she’s just late, like she’s coming back, like you’re in some romantic tragedy where being faithful to death makes you noble instead of just stuck.

I made a promise. My hands clenched into fists at her grave the day we buried her. Promised I wouldn’t just replace her with the first woman who I’m not trying to replace her. Emma’s voice rose sharp with frustration and hurt. I’m trying to save you. And maybe, if I’m being honest, trying to save myself, too. Save yourself from what? Emma went very still. The air between us changed. Got heavier. When she spoke again, her voice was small, broken in a different way than mine.

From a man who made me believe I was only good for one thing, who convinced me that being good in bed meant being good at taking pain, who said he married me, but what he really married was ownership. She looked at me with eyes that held their own graveyard. I left him nine months ago. Took only what I could carry. Drove until I found a place he’d never think to look. Been hiding here ever since, trying to remember what it feels like to be a person instead of property.

My chest tightened. Emma. So [snorts] when I asked if you were good in bed, she laughed bitter and broken. Wasn’t asking if you were good at sex, Jack. I was asking if you were good at being human again. If you remembered how to be gentle, how to see a woman as something other than a ghost or a possession. If there was any man left under all that grief, who could teach me that being wanted doesn’t have to hurt.

We stood there in the cemetery, two broken people, both married to phantoms we couldn’t shake. Her to an abuser she’d escaped but never quite left behind. Me to a woman I’d loved and lost and couldn’t release. I don’t know how to be what you need, I said finally. I’ve been dead so long, I don’t remember what living feels like. Then maybe we figure it out together. Emma took one more step. Now she was close enough to touch.

Because I asked if you were married and you said no, you’re just waiting. But Jack, what if waiting is just another word for afraid? What if she’s not coming back because she was never supposed to? What if the woman you’ve been waiting for has been standing next to you all along, asking questions you were too scared to answer? Before I could respond, before I could tell her she was right or wrong or insane, headlights swept across the cemetery.

A car I didn’t recognize, expensive in black, pulled up to the gates. A man stepped out, tall, well-dressed, predators smile, even from a distance. Emma went white, actually staggered backward. No, no, no, no. He can’t. He’s not supposed to. Who is that? But I already knew. Could see it in the way she’d started shaking. The way her breath came in sharp gasps. The way every muscle in her body prepared to run. Richard, she whispered. Richard Parker, my husband, my ex-husband.

He found me. The man Parker started walking toward us through the graves, his smile widening as he got closer. Emma, there you are, darling. I’ve been looking everywhere. His voice was smooth, cultured, hiding something cruel underneath. “Time to come home now. This little adventure of yours has gone on long enough.” Emma grabbed my arm. “Jack, please. You have to. I can’t go back. I can’t. He’ll kill me. Maybe not today, but eventually he’ll Emma belongs to me, cowboy,” Parker called out, getting closer.

“And I’ve got legal papers that say so. Marriage license, joint property deed, all of it in my jacket.” He patted his chest. So I suggest you step aside and let me collect my wife. Something cold and sharp crystallized in my chest. That word wife. The way he said it like ownership instead of partnership. The way Emma’s fingers dug into my arm hard enough to bruise her whole body trembling with terror. I recognized because I’d felt it too.

Different source, same devastation. The lady says she’s not your wife anymore. I heard myself say. Parker stopped 5 ft away. Up close, I could see the expensive watch, the tailored suit, the gym sculpted body of a man who’d never done a real day’s work. And underneath all that polish, dead eyes, the kind of empty that comes from taking pleasure in others pain. The lady doesn’t get to decide that. Parker’s smile never wavered. We’re married. That’s a legal contract.

And this property she’s been hiding on. I did some digging. Turns out it’s in both our names. Her grandmother’s will split it between us when she died. So really, I’m not just here for my wife. I’m here to claim my land, too. Emma made a sound like she’d been punched. That’s not the will said. The will said joint ownership pending divorce finalization. Parker pulled papers from his jacket with a flourish. And since you never showed up to any of the court dates, never signed the final documents, never finished what you started, we’re still married, Emma, which means everything you have is half mine, including this cute little ranch you’ve been playing house on.

He turned those dead eyes on me. So, whoever you are, whatever you think you mean to her, it’s time to walk away. Emma and I have business to discuss. Private business between a husband and his wife. Emma’s voice came out broken, pleading. Jack, I asked if you were married. You said, “No, you’re just waiting for her. But I need to know right now. Need to know if there’s any part of you that’s done waiting because I can’t fight him alone.

I tried for 3 years and he broke me. And if you’re still married to your dead wife, if you’re still waiting for permission that’s never coming, then tell me now so I can run before he Parker’s hand shot out, grabbed Emma’s wrist, yanked her away from me. Enough. We’re leaving now.” And something in me, something that had been dead for 5 years, buried with Sarah, gone cold and quiet and numb, suddenly roared back to life. I stepped between them.

Let her go. My voice didn’t sound like mine. It sounded like the man I used to be before Sarah died. Before grief hollowed me out, before I forgot what it meant to fight for something instead of just mourning what was lost. Parker’s eyes narrowed. This doesn’t concern you, cowboy. She asked me a question three days ago. I didn’t move, didn’t back down, planted myself between Emma and this man like a wall he’d have to go through. Asked if I was good in bed, if I was married, and I told her I was waiting for her, for my dead wife to tell me it was okay to live again.

I glanced back at Emma, saw hope and terror roaring in her eyes. But maybe I’ve been asking the wrong question all along. Maybe it’s not about being married or single or waiting. Maybe it’s about whether you’re the kind of man who protects what matters or the kind who hides behind ghosts. Touching speech. Parker’s hand went to his belt to something tucked in the back. But I’ve got legal right to my wife and my property. You’ve got nothing but misplaced cowboy heroism.

So here’s what’s going to happen. He pulled out a gun. Emma screamed my name. And I realized that my neighbor, the woman who’d asked if I was good in bed, if I was married, had just become the woman I’d die to protect, and the reason I’d finally learned the difference between waiting for the dead and fighting for the living. The gun in Richard Parker’s hand looked expensive, like everything else about him. Polished chrome catching moonlight, grip wrapped in custom leather, the kind of weapon a man buys to feel powerful instead of to actually use.

But expensive or not, a bullet still kills. And Parker’s finger rested too comfortably on that trigger for this to be his first time pointing it at someone he claimed to love. Jack, don’t. Emma’s voice shook behind me, but I didn’t move. Didn’t step aside. Kept myself planted between her and that barrel. He’ll do it. He’s done it before. Not to me, but to There was a man at a bar who looked at me too long, and Richard followed him to the parking lot.

And Emma, sweetheart, you’re making me sound like a monster. Parker’s smile never wavered. Didn’t reach his dead eyes. That man put his hands on what was mine. I was protecting my investment, just like I’m protecting it now. He shifted his aim slightly, pointing the gun at my chest instead of my head. Last chance, cowboy. Walk away. This is between a husband and wife. She’s not your wife. My hands stayed loose at my sides, every muscle coiled and ready.

You might have a piece of paper that says so, but that’s not what marriage means. Oh, Parker laughed, the sound cold and clinical. And you’re an expert? The widowerower who spends every night talking to a tombstone? Emma told me all about you. Did some research after I tracked her here. Jack Carter, the man so good at being married he couldn’t keep his wife alive. The words hit like a physical blow designed to hurt, to make me flinch, to break my focus.

5 years ago, they would have destroyed me. 5 years ago, I would have believed them, would have turned that gun on myself, and saved Parker the trouble. But 3 days ago, my neighbor asked if I was good in bed and if I was married. And somewhere in the wreckage of answering that question, I’d started remembering what it meant to be human instead of just haunted. “You’re right,” I said quietly. I couldn’t keep Sarah alive. Watched her slip away in a hospital room while holding her hand, whispering promises I didn’t know how to keep.

Died with her that day in every way that mattered. I took one step forward toward the gun instead of away from it. But Emma didn’t ask if I was good at saving people. She asked if I was good in bed. And you know what that question really meant? Parker’s smile faltered slightly. It meant, “Was I good at being present? At being gentle when the world’s been cruel, at remembering that a woman’s not property or a prize or something to own.

She’s a person who deserves to be seen.” Another step. And you, you might be married to Emma on paper, but you’ve never been good in bed a single day of your miserable life. Jack, stop. Emma’s hand grabbed the back of my shirt, trying to pull me back. He’ll kill you. The gun isn’t just for show. He’s Parker cocked the hammer. The click echoed through the cemetery, bouncing off marble headstones and iron gates. You know what I think?

I think you’re just another dead man who hasn’t figured it out yet. Sarah’s been gone 5 years, and you’re still waiting for her permission to move on. That’s pathetic. At least I know how to take what I want. That’s the difference between us. I stopped 3 ft from the barrel. Close enough to see Parker’s finger tighten on the trigger. Close enough to smell his expensive cologne mixed with the sour edge of sweat. You take, I wait. Neither one of us knows the first thing about earning.

For one frozen second, we stood there, me unarmed and steady. Parker with his gun and his papers and his claims of ownership. Emma behind me radiating terror and hope in equal measure. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain that hadn’t fallen yet. And I thought about Sarah’s grave 20 yard behind me. About the promises I’d made about 5 years of waiting for permission that would never come. Then I thought about Emma asking if I was married.

About the courage it took to voice desire when desire had only ever brought her pain. About the way she’d looked at me in the barn like maybe I could be the kind of man who remembered how to be gentle. And I made a choice. I moved. Not away from the gun, toward it. Faster than Parker expected, faster than grief slow reflexes should have allowed. My hand shooting out to grab his wrist and force the barrel away from both of us.

The gun went off. Deafening crack, muzzle flash, burning after images into my vision, and the bullet went wide, sparking off a rod iron fence post instead of burying itself in flesh. We crashed together, two men fighting over a woman neither one of us deserved. My work calloused hands against his gym soft grip. My five years of numb grief strength against his practiced cruelty. Parker was bigger, better fed. Probably had 50 lbs on me. But I’d spent half a decade lifting grief heavier than any weight room could.

Measure and rage. Real rage, the kind that comes from finally having something worth protecting, made me stronger than I had any right to be. We went down hard, rolling across cemetery grass, fighting for control of the weapon. Parker’s knee caught my ribs, drove the air from my lungs. My elbow found his jaw, snapped his head back with a satisfying crunch. The gun skittered away across marble chips, and Emma dove for it, her hands closing around the grip just as Parker threw me off and lunged after her.

Don’t you touch her. I grabbed his ankle, dragged him back, took a boot to the face that split my lip and filled my mouth with copper taste blood. Emma stood 5 feet away. Both hands wrapped around the gun. Barrel pointed at her husband, her ex-husband, the man she’d run from, the ghost that had haunted her as surely as Sarah haunted me. Her hands shook so badly I thought she might drop it. Emma. Parker’s voice went soft, persuasive, the tone of a man who’d spent years learning exactly how to break her.

Baby, put the gun down. You’re not a killer. You’re my wife. You’re good in bed and good at doing what you’re told, and we both know you’re not going to pull that trigger. He’s right. Emma’s voice came out broken. I’m not a killer. My heart sank. Then Emma’s hands steadied. Her eyes went hard. And when she spoke again, her voice carried 5 years of abuse, 9 months of running, 3 days of hope, and one question that had changed everything.

But I asked my neighbor if he was married, and he said no. He was just waiting for her, waiting for permission to live, waiting for someone to need him enough to make the waiting stop. She looked at me, blood running down my face, sprawled in cemetery dirt. Well, I need you, Jack Carter. need you to stop waiting and start fighting. So tell me right now, are you married to the dead? Or are you finally ready to be good in bed for someone who can actually feel it?

I looked at Emma holding that gun at Parker calculating his next move. At Sarah’s grave visible in my peripheral vision, thought about 5 years of waiting, of asking permission from Marble that couldn’t answer, of being married to grief instead of learning how to live with loss. Then I stood up, wiped blood from my mouth, and walked to Emma’s side. No, ma’am, I said, I’m not married anymore. And for the first time in 5 years, I meant it.

The moment I said those words, I’m not married anymore. Everything changed. Not in the world around us, not in the cemetery with its silent graves and iron gates, not in the way Richard Parker calculated his next move with those dead predator eyes. The change happened inside me in the place where grief had built a home for 5 years, where Sarah’s ghost had whispered that loving again meant betraying everything we’d been. That voice went quiet. Not gone, maybe never fully gone, but quiet enough that I could finally hear my own heartbeat again, feel my own breath, remember what it meant to stand beside someone living instead of kneeling before someone dead.

Emma’s hands steadied on the gun. Say it again. I’m not married anymore, I repeated louder this time, the words tasting like freedom and terror. I’m done waiting. Done asking permission from ghosts. Done being good at grief instead of good at living. Parker laughed, the sound sharp and cruel. Touching really, but that gun in Emma’s hands. She’s not going to use it. I know my wife spent three years teaching her exactly what happens when she tries to fight back.

He took a step forward. Put it down, Emma. Be a good girl. Come home where you belong. I asked if you were married, Emma said to me, ignoring Parker completely, her voice growing stronger with each word. And you said you were waiting for her. But Jack, I don’t need you to wait anymore. I need you to choose right now. Me or the ghost, the living or the dead? Because I can’t fight him alone. And I won’t ask you to die for someone you’re not sure you want.

Behind us, sirens wailed, getting closer. Someone at the barn raising must have called the sheriff after Emma followed me. After Parker showed up asking questions, after small town gossip networks did what they do best. Help was coming, but not fast enough. Not before Parker made his move. Not before Emma had to decide if she could pull that trigger. “I choose you,” I said. And the simplicity of it, three words instead of 5 years of complicated grief, made Emma’s eyes fill with tears.

I choose the woman brave enough to ask the question. The woman who saw a dead man walking and asked if there was anything left worth saving. Parker’s face twisted into something ugly. You think you’re a hero? You think saving her makes you better than me? She’ll never be free. I’ve got lawyers, money, connections that’ll bury her in legal battles until she’s 50. That propertyy’s mine. She’s mine. And you? You’re just a broke rancher playing cowboy with my wife.

That’s where you’re wrong. Emma’s voice cut through his tirade. I’m not your wife. Haven’t been since the day I drove away with nothing but the clothes I was wearing and the will to survive. That paper you’re waving around? It’s just paper. Marriage is supposed to be, her voice cracked, supposed to be someone who sees you as human instead of property. Someone who asks if you’re okay instead of telling you what you are. Someone who’s good in bed because they’re good at being present, not good at taking what they want.

She looked at me and I saw it. The same choice I just made reflected in her eyes. Choose the living or stay married to fear. Step forward or stay frozen. Risk everything or protect nothing. Jack asked if I needed him, Emma continued. But I don’t need him to save me. I need him to stand beside me while I save myself. The sirens got louder. Red and blue lights flickered through the cemetery gates. Parker’s jaw clenched, his body coiling like a snake about to strike.

You’re going to regret this, both of you. I’ll take everything. the land, her reputation. Whatever pathetic life you think you’re building together, I’ll make sure. You’ll make sure of nothing. Sheriff Marcus Williams stepped through the gates, hand on his holstered weapon. Two deputies flanking him. Marcus had been my foreman back when Sarah was alive, had watched me dissolve into grief after she died, had tried for 5 years to pull me back to the living world. Now he took in the scene.

me bloodied. Emma holding a gun. Parker with his expensive suit and expensive rage. Mr. Parker, I’m going to need you to put your hands where I can see them. This is a domestic dispute, Sheriff. Between me and my wife. That woman’s not your wife. Marcus moved closer, his voice carrying the weight of small town authority and personal conviction. Not according to the restraining order she filed 9 months ago. Not according to the divorce papers that were finalized last week when you failed to appear in court and definitely not according to Montana law which says pointing a gun at people during a property dispute is aggravated assault.

Parker’s face went pale. The divorce wasn’t I never got you got served three times. Ignored it every time because you thought Emma was too scared to follow through. Marcus pulled out handcuffs. Turns out the woman you spent 3 years breaking, she’s a lot stronger than you gave her credit for. Emma lowered the gun slowly, her whole body shaking with adrenaline and relief and something that looked like vindication. It’s done. The divorce is done. Final legal. Marcus took the gun from her gently.

You’re free, Emma. Have been for a week. just took a while for the paperwork to catch up. The sound Emma made, part sob, part laugh, part five years of held breath, finally released, broke something in my chest, and rebuilt it at the same time. She turned to me, tears streaming down her face, and I caught her as her knees gave out, held her while she shook apart and back together, felt her heartbeat against my chest, and remembered what it meant to hold someone living, someone warm, someone who could hold me back.

I asked if you were married, she whispered against my shoulder. And you said you were waiting for her. I was, I admitted, but not for Sarah. Not really. I was waiting for someone to give me permission to stop grieving. Someone to make living seem worth the risk of losing again. I pulled back enough to see her face, to wipe tears from her cheeks with thumbs still scraped from fighting. Turns out I was waiting for my neighbor, for the woman brave enough to ask if I was good in bed when what she really wanted to know was if I was good at being human.

Emma laughed, broken and beautiful. “Are you good in bed?” “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Haven’t tried in 5 years. Might have forgotten how.” “Then I guess we’ll figure it out together.” She looked at Sarah’s grave visible over my shoulder. “Do you think she’d Do you think your wife would mind?” me asking you choosing us trying to build something from all this brokenness. I thought about Sarah, about the woman who’d loved me enough to marry me, who’d died trying to bring our daughter into the world, who’d made me promise in that hospital room to find happiness again, even though we’d both known it was a lie I’d never be able to keep.

Thought about 5 years of waiting for permission that would never come because Sarah was gone and ghosts don’t get to control the living. I think I said slowly. Sarah would tell me I’m an idiot for waiting this long. Would tell me that being good in bed means being good at living. And I haven’t been good at living since the day she died. I kissed Emma’s forehead, tasted salt and dirt and something that felt dangerously like hope. But I’d like to try if you’ll teach me how.

Marcus cleared his throat. You two need a minute. Or should I get statements while Parker’s being processed? statements,” Emma said, straightening but not letting go of my hand. “I want everything on record, everything he did, everything he threatened. I want him gone for good.” It took 2 hours to give statements, to document injuries, to watch Parker get loaded into a sheriff’s vehicle, still protesting his rights and his ownership and his version of what marriage meant. Two hours of reliving trauma and explaining choices and answering questions while holding Emma’s hand so tight my fingers went numb.

When it was finally over, when the last vehicle pulled away and the cemetery went quiet again, we stood there in the space between Sarah’s grave and Emma’s freedom. Two broken people who’d asked each other the right questions at exactly the right time. So Emma said, “You’re not married anymore.” “No, ma’am. And you’re done waiting for her. Done waiting for permission. Done waiting for signs. Done waiting for anything except maybe sunrise tomorrow morning. Emma smiled, tired and real.

What happens now? Now? I looked at our joined hands at the blood and dirt and evidence of fighting for something instead of mourning what was lost. Now I take my neighbor home, make her coffee, sit on the porch until sunrise, maybe finally learn what it means to be good in bed for someone who can actually feel it. That simple. That simple. I agreed. No more ghosts. No more waiting. Just two people trying to remember how to be human together.

We walked out of that cemetery hand in hand, leaving Sarah’s grave behind but not forgotten. Leaving Parker’s threats behind, but not unguarded. stepping from the land of the dead into the messy, complicated, beautiful work of living. And when Emma asked one more time, “Are you married, Jack Carter?” I answered with the truth I’d been too afraid to speak for 5 years. “No, but I’d like to be someday to the right woman. If she’ll have a broken down rancher who’s just learning how to live again.” Emma stopped walking, turned to face me, pulled me down for a kiss that tasted like freedom and fear.

and the possibility of something neither of us had believed we deserved. “Ask me again in a year,” she whispered. “After we’ve both learned what being good in bed really means, after you’ve taught me that wanting doesn’t have to hurt, after I’ve taught you that living doesn’t betray the dead. It’s a deal.” And for the first time in 5 years, I believed in tomorrows again. 6 months later, our properties merged literally and legally. Fence lines torn down, water rights shared, two broken ranches becoming one whole life.

A year after that, I asked the question Emma had been waiting for, the one that mattered more than whether I was married or good in bed or done waiting for ghosts. I asked if she’d build a future with me. And when she said yes, the word tasted like coming home. We were married on a spring morning with Marcus as best man and half the town as witnesses in a ceremony that honored the people we’d lost while celebrating the people we’d become.

And that night, in the house we’d built together from broken pieces, I finally learned what my neighbor had really been asking all along. You seem to be good in bed. Are you married? The answer was no. And then it was yes. And both were true because being good in bed meant being good at living and being married meant choosing each other every single day. And waiting for the dead only made sense if it taught you how to fight for the living.

My neighbor asked a question that changed everything. I gave an answer that nearly destroyed us. But we both survived long enough to learn that being good in bed, being married, being human, it all comes down to the same truth. You have to stop waiting for permission to live. You have to choose the living over the dead. And when you find someone brave enough to ask the question, you have to be brave enough to give the real answer.

I’m not married anymore. I’m done waiting. And if you’ll have me, I’d like to show you what being good in bed really means. One sunrise, one choice, one moment of choosing life over grief at a time. Where are you watching this from? Drop your location in the comments below. I want to know how far this story has traveled.

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