It isn’t easy, starting a new relationship when the old is still sweet in your heart and smoke in your lungs. It’s not easy to look at the one in front of you and realize that they are not the person that came before - they aren’t the source of your heartache. It isn’t easy, but it’s necessary. Moving on is necessary. Repairing your heart is necessary. It isn’t easy to let go and hold onto someone new, but our hearts are better for it.

In the end with Jensen, there is no big explosion, no sudden reason why it’s over. The show’s been over for a few years now, careers have gone on and neither one of you are overly successful, but you get by. There’s no sudden revelation that things are bad. Because things aren’t bad - they just… are. It’s a routine, falling into a kiss and into bed with him. It feels good, there’s no denying that you work well together, you fit well together. But the passion has slipped away. The ache that you used to feel when someone else would touch him - its gone now, replaced with indifference that scares you. You know you should care. You know how you should want and how you should ache, but you feel empty. You feel something like friendship, something less like love.

It’s him who says it first - maybe this isn’t working. And you wish you were shocked. You wish you could stand up and fight for a love that means more than the air that you breath, but he’s right. There’s nothing wrong - but nothing is right all the same. It’s just forward momentum, going through the motions of the day without thought, it’s just … there. And so you agree - he’s right, something isn’t working. And you think you ought to want to try but it’s easier to say goodbye. Doors shut behind you and it’s over.

Starting over feels fresh, crisp clean linen over your skin and a bright sun burning through the haze of Los Angeles. You might smell the ocean if you stopped, but you’re still in forward motion, still breaking out of the cycle stopping yourself from walking down this street and up one block, up two flights to a door painted red that used to belong to you and him, but now there’s a sign. Black block letter permanent - for rent. Your heart is for rent. The last tenant’s cleaned out and there’s a vacancy in its place.

You break the habit, walk away from that door that used to be yours and cross town to another neighborhood, realtor in sharp black lines with cell phone plugged into her ear always. It’s nice, brick facing and fresh white painted walls. A view of the ocean out one window, one square inch of blue framed by concrete. The door is painted red. You’ll take it.

Days pass, months. You work, finish one project and start another. You buy a guitar, a reminder of something you’re supposed to be forgetting. The notes don’t sound out under your fingertips though, they sound hollow. They echo through a room empty save for you and steel and wood. The room is empty but you paint it green, like the ocean some days when the rain is threatening and the water shifts from brilliant to deep mysterious. You put the guitar in the corner and you shut the door behind you.

You go out sometimes, visits from old friends and well meaning co-workers pushing you out of your shell and seeking out that glimmer of smile that used to come so easy. You don’t push them away but you let them pull you, out to a bar, to a club, smoke screen hazy and alcohol bitter on your tongue. You see Jensen once, smile so bright you’re blind and you think he must be happy. And you’re glad - you want him to be happy. You want that happiness too.

Steve is an enigma. You met him before, friend of Jensen before you were more to Jensen, but he seeks you out now. Smile brilliant white and his eyes are blue like the ocean when the sun is shining. His skin is warm under your hand, fingers calloused and rough. He has that sweet melody you miss in his voice, in his song. Your heart has a vacancy but its not for rent to just anyone. You’re looking for a life time buyer, a thirty year mortgage with a down payment. Steve’s mouth is gentle, building something inside you. Building something more than flash heat that extinguishes too quickly.

You’re building something that will last this time.

His hair is soft in your hands, long enough to wrap around the tips of your fingers. He sits in front of you in the empty room painted green, hips between your thighs and back against your chest. He rests his head back against your shoulder, long line of his neck bared to your mouth. You can feel his pulse, the rhythm beating steady against your cheek. The guitar sounds sweet, rich under his hands. The room doesn’t echo but reverberates, acoustics sending the rasp of his voice down your spine like a chill. The room isn’t empty, it is filled with him.

There is no routine, no steady fall into bed with him. His mouth finds skin constantly, learning you with the tip of his tongue and the span of fingers across your back, across your belly. Jensen taught you not to look for soft curves and smooth legs. Now your touch wants the weight of him in your grasp, the flat length of stomach with soft hair darkening down. You touch his arms reverently, ink branded deep under his flesh in a pattern of him before you. You want to add to the roadmap.

He doesn’t ask for ceremony or grand displays. The ring on your finger is simple, silver and wide but heavy in your hand. He doesn’t ask any questions, doesn’t take you to a restaurant and put this moment on display. He waits, pushed hip to hip inside you, already on his knees and he puts it in your hand, puts it on your finger. He says - I love you.

Your heart is not for rent. It is owned by a man with eyes like the sea and a voice that fills up your home. It isn’t easy to fall out of love, but you can’t find new love without it.