Sixty seconds is longer than you’d think.At thirty, my shoulders start to drop.At forty-five, I feel his pulse syncing with mine where our wrists touch.At sixty, neither of us pulls away.
“Repair?”he asks, his voice quiet.
“We didn’t miss,” I whisper.“But—” I breathe in, slow and full.“Earlier, when I said sex, I didn’t just mean the act.I meant you.I didn’t want release—I wanted you.I still do.”
“I know,” he says.“And I don’t want abstinence to become some righteous performance.I want you, too.”
“Tomorrow,” I say.“We schedule it like grown men who aren’t afraid of how badly we need each other.”
“Tomorrow,” he echoes.“Candle.Closed door.Traffic light on the nightstand.”A grin tugs at his mouth.“No sulking.”
I grin back.“No sulking.”
He sits back on his heels and offers both hands, palms up.I slide mine into his.We stay there, quiet, warm.Simple.
Footsteps pass in the hallway—soft, quick, fading.Neither of us moves.Neither of us startles.We stay where we are, in this square of carpet, in this moment we swore we’d show up for.
“Connection or numbing?”he asks, one last time.
“Connection,” I answer.“Every time we can.”
He nods, a soft resolve blooming behind his eyes.“Then let’s make tea.And do the hug again in an hour.”
“Bossy,” I murmur.
“Partner,” he says.
I rise and reach for him.He comes without hesitation, he pushes up, eyes never leaving mine like he’s already said yes to something bigger than either of us.
I cup his face—not urgently, not out of panic, but like I’ve finally remembered what softness tastes like.My thumb grazes the edge of his jaw, tracing the heat that lives just under his skin.He leans in, exhales once, as if he doesn’t breathe now, he won’t survive what’s coming next.
Then I kiss him.
An intentional, slow, no choreographed kiss.Just the quiet collision of two people who’ve spent too long pretending restraint is love.
His breath catches at the seam of it.Mine stutters.The air shifts.My fingers slide into his damp curls, and he sinks into me like he’s been holding tension in every bone and just found permission to let go.
When I pull back, it’s barely an inch.“I needed that,” he whispers, voice wrecked and raw.
I press my palm flat against his chest, feeling the beat galloping under skin and ribs.“Tomorrow, we want.Tonight, we keep choosing.”
He doesn’t answer with words.
He kisses me again—deeper this time.Slower, like he’s carving the shape of me into memory.His hands cradle my jaw, thumbs brushing under my ears, holding me like he’s terrified I’ll vanish if he lets go.I feel his mouth move with more purpose now, tasting, pressing, dragging a low sound out of us.There’s no urgency to get to anything else—just this, lips and breath and emotion tangled in a rhythm only we know.
His tongue touches mine, and everything inside me answers.Want, yes—but not the wildfire that scorches and vanishes.This want moves deeper, rooted in something earned.It lingers in my chest, curls in my stomach, holds low in my spine like it’s preparing to settle, not burn out.
This is the want that waits at the door and knocks.
The want that stays even when the lights are off and the promises are hard to keep.
We kiss like we’re building something brick by fucking brick.His hands tighten in my hair, and mine find the slope of his back, pressing him closer until there’s no question of where he belongs.
We pull apart, but barely.His forehead rests against mine.His breath is in my mouth, my name is still in his.
“I’m here,” I whisper.“Still here.”
He nods.“And I’m not going anywhere.”
