Until now.
I walk to him, slow. My palms are clammy. My breath shallow.
I touch his shoulder.
He turns.
And for the first time, we don’t speak.
We just look.
Because there’s nothing left to explain.
I lift my hands to his chest, pressing my fingers to the thick ridges of his muscles. He’s fire and steel and something softer beneath it all. Something I’ve never stopped needing.
He exhales as my touch trails up his throat, into his hair.
My voice cracks like brittle glass.
“I’m scared.”
He wraps both arms around me, pulling me in until my forehead rests against his.
“I know,” he whispers.
“I keep thinking… what if this is the last night? What if we don’t make it?”
His thumb brushes the edge of my jaw.
“Then let’s make it count.”
We fall into the bed together like we’ve been doing this every night for years.
But it’s not frantic this time. Not desperate.
It’s slow.
Every touch is a question.
Every answer is breath and skin and trembling.
He kisses me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.
I kiss him like I’m already grieving.
His hands are reverent. He maps every inch of me like a soldier reading battle terrain—but with the awe of someone who’s just learned what peace feels like.
I arch under him, sighing into his mouth as our bodies fit like puzzle pieces carved by time.
No rush. No war behind our eyes.
Just us.
Just love.
After, we lie in sheets that smell like lavender and salt and sweat.
My cheek rests against his chest. I can hear his heart—steady, heavy, strong. The weight of it comforts me.
