That night, when the lights were off and the adrenaline had faded, the real conversation began. She curled against me, half amused, half exasperated, and admitted the joke had stung before it made sense. I told her I was sorry, not as a retreat, but as a choice: to value her heart more than my need to be clever. She listened, then forgave, and in that quiet exchange, the joke became something else entirely.
It turned into a tiny scar we both knew the shape of, a story we’d someday tell with a grin instead of a wince. Long-term love isn’t about avoiding every misstep; it’s surviving them together, choosing to believe the best about the person beside you. In the end, the grenade didn’t blow us apart. It reminded us that even our misfires can be folded back into the fabric of us.
