He doesn’t have to.
I kiss him again.
Desperately.
Softly.
Like this might be the last time we’re allowed to.
And then… I don’t know what shifts.
Maybe it’s the way the sun dips behind the clouds, or the distant bark of a dog near the village path. Maybe it’s just the sound of our own breathing, loud and frantic, reminding us howrealthis is. That this isn’t imagination. That wedidthis.
His body stills beneath mine.
His breath slows.
My forehead rests against his, but now my chest aches with something cold and rising.
Theo’s hand slips from beneath my shirt, falling to the blanket between us.
I don’t move.
Neither does he.
It’s not shame. Not entirely.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, bodies tangled, mouths swollen, breath dragging shallow through parted lips. Our hips have stilled, but my body still feels the echoes of each grind, each shuddering pull against him. I can feel where he pressed against me, where I pressed back, the sticky heat still trapped between us. And yet I don’t want to move.
He’s underneath me, chest rising and falling beneath my palm, the muscles there still tense, like his body hasn’t realized it’s allowed to rest. His shirt is rumpled, his skinflushed, and I feel him shifting beneath me, not to pull away, not yet, but to find something solid again. We’re both coming down from something that’s never been spoken, never been named. Something that was never supposed to happen.
The field is silent except for us.
My forehead rests against his, our noses brushing with each breath. His fingers twitch where they rest against my hips, and I can tell he’s trying to decide whether to let them stay there or move. The choice feels too loud in the stillness.
Then, slowly, I feel it: the tension winding its way back into his body.
Theo’s chest tightens beneath my hand. His breath hitches, not in pleasure this time, but in hesitation. And when his hands finally leave me, sliding away from my skin with the gentleness of regret, I feel the loss like cold air pouring into a warm room.
I pull back just enough to see him. His face is tilted away slightly, brow knit in a way I’ve seen when he’s trying not to say something. His lips are parted, still red, still damp from mine. He looks wrecked, and not in the way that makes me feel proud. He looks like he’s trying to hold something together before it slips through his hands.
The sunlight, so warm before, now casts long, uneven shadows across the blanket. The world is still quiet, but it doesn’t feel hidden anymore. It feels exposed.
Theo’s voice breaks the silence, low and unsure. “What are we doing?”
Not accusing. Not demanding.
Just…asking.
Like the question has been sitting on his tongue for weeks and only now found the strength to surface.
I don’t answer right away. I can’t. The weight of it lands too heavy. I shift beside him, sitting back on my heels as Ilook at the marks we left on each other, my handprint still faintly red on his chest, his breath still uneven.
“I don’t know,” I say eventually, the words sounding hollow in the space between us. “But I didn’t want it to stop.”
I expect him to nod. To smile. To lean back into me and kiss me again and say that it doesn’t matter, that he feels the same.
But instead, he just breathes.
