The back door creaks.
Then he’s beside me,
all breath, all body heat.
He leans one arm on the railing,
turning into me.
His other hand sinks to my hip,
then slides up under layers,
thumb dragging across my skin,
finding truth in how I feel
before my mouth opens and spills lies.
“You wanna talk about it?”
My eyes stay forward, staring past his garage,
the smoke pumping out of chimneys
and into the night sky.
“What’s there to talk about?”
Laughter and Dean Martin spins from inside again, seeping out through the cracks in the house. Scratchy. Nostalgic. He leans closer.
His chin’s near my temple now,
thumb circling slow at my waist.
“What my ma said,
“it didn’t mess you up or nothin’?”
“Nah—that?Pshh?—”
My eyes follow with a half-roll.
“I just came out here ‘cause I was cold.”
He laughs under his breath with a nod,
then pulls me into him,
circling my arms around his waist,
where he needs me.
“So you’re just out here… chillin’, huh?
“None of that hit?”
He’s got that cocked brow again?—
