He reached out and took my bag from my shoulder, his fingers brushing against me. He didn’t shy away. The days of hesitant touching were over, but the shadow of old insecurities remained. He didn’t pull back but he didn’t push for more either.
He started walking towards the house, my bag over his shoulder, clicking his tongue at Murphy so he would follow.
“Wait,” I called out, grabbing ahold of his arm before he could go any farther. I gave him a slight tug. Flynn turned to face me, and I quickly wrapped my arms around his waist.
Flynn instinctually stiffened. “I want to kiss you. I’ve missed you,” I whispered, the wind picking up my words and enfolding them around us.
“Okay,” Flynn replied, smiling for the first time.
I rose up on my tiptoes and carefully pressed my mouth against his. His lips were warm and dry, and I couldn’t help but trace my tongue along the seam. His arms came up to encircle me in return and he pulled me tightly against him.
His mouth opened beneath mine without hesitation and within seconds we were kissing as though we would never have the chance to again.
As though it had been a thousand years since we had seen each other.
As though he were my air and I was his beating heart.
Kissing Flynn was an experience unlike anything. No two kisses were ever the same. Some were soft and tentative. Others were hungry and almost violent.
But this kiss was special.
It was passionate and tender and uncontrollable.
It made me want to cry. It made me want to laugh. It made me want to hang on and never let go.
I broke the kiss after a few minutes when snow started to fall; icy, wet kisses on our skin.
“I love you, Flynn,” I told him, resting my forehead against his chin.
He didn’t give me the words back. He never did. And while I accepted this limitation in him, it still hurt. I wondered if it always would.
“Come on, let’s go inside,” I said softly, my arms still around him.
He shivered. “I hate the snow. It makes everything feel wet and cold,” he said, wiping away flakes that settled in his hair.
“I know,” I said, remembering all to well how much he disliked it.
“I made banana bread,” he stated, still wiping at the wetness on his skin.
I grinned, loving this moment of familiarity.
“I figured you would.”
**
Memories are most commonly associated with the sense of smell. When I walked into Flynn’s house I was assaulted by the rich, warm scent of freshly baked banana bread and cleaning products and was instantly thrown back to a different time in my life.
I remembered walking through these very rooms as a young, angry girl. Flynn and our secret friendship had been my only reprieve from an ugly existence.
Flynn put my bag down on the couch and continued into the kitchen without waiting to see if I would follow.
“You’ve painted the living room,” I called out as we passed through the room.
“I had a leak in the upstairs bathroom. Water was coming out of the ceiling and down the wall. I had to paint it. It looked horrible,” Flynn explained.
I looked at the now soft yellow walls and found the change sort of jarring. I knew altering anything was hard for Flynn. He lived in stasis. I was a surprised he had changed the color.
“Why didn’t you keep it blue?” I asked when we were finally in the kitchen.
