Darius stands in the center of the living room, lit by the fractured spill of neon from the laundromat across the street. He doesn’t move, not right away.
Just looks at me, eyes black and endless, like he’s memorizing everything before the lights go out.
I want to say something, break the tension, but all I get is, “You want water?” which is so dumb it almost makes him laugh.
He shakes his head, but doesn’t look away. “Come here,” he says, and it’s not a question.
I go.
He pulls me in, one hand on my waist, the other knotted in the back of my shirt. It’s not rough, not rushed. Just sure.
Our mouths meet, soft at first, then harder, his bottom lip caught between mine.
He tastes like blue Gatorade and exhaustion, the salt of sweat still lingering at the corner of his mouth.
There's something else too, something earthy and familiar that floods my senses and settles in my chest like the first breath after breaking water's surface. Something like home.
His hands are shaking, his fingertips brush against my wrist, leaving trails of electricity, and I realize, for the first time, I'm not the only one scared of breaking this fragile, precious thing we've built between us.
We move toward the bedroom, bumping into furniture, giggling at nothing.
When we finally make it to the bed, he stops, sits on the edge, pulls me down beside him.
There’s no choreography, no script.
Just touch, and breath, and the heat of skin against skin.
He undresses me slow, like he’s opening a gift he’s waited for all his life. I let him.
He runs his hands over my shoulders, my chest, my stomach, his fingertips leaving trails of heat like match strikes against skin.
His palms pause at my ribs, counting them through muscle, while his thumbs trace the hollow spaces between.
Every touch is a question whispered in braille, every answer written in goosebumps that rise and fall in his wake like tide pools filling, emptying.
I do the same to him, marveling at the solidity of his body, the way he tenses when I trace my fingers up his spine, the way his breath catches when I kiss the scar at his collarbone.
There’s a reverence to it.
Not worship, but something close. I’ve done this before, but never like this.
Never with someone who wanted all of me, not just the parts that looked good in a story.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue pushing past my teeth with gentle insistence.
I open for him, let him in, feeling the warm slide of his mouth against mine.
His breath tastes faintly of mint and coffee, and when I sigh against his lips, he pulls me closer, one hand cupping the back of my neck, thumb tracing slow circles just below my hairline.
He tastes me, slow and deliberate, then catches my lower lip between his teeth, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make my pulse stutter.
When he pulls back, his eyes search mine, dark as midnight water, pupils blown wide with a hunger that makes my stomach drop like I've just crested the highest point of a rollercoaster.
“You okay?” he whispers.
I nod, then surprise myself. “I’ve never been more okay.”
He smiles, and it’s so beautiful I almost forget to breathe.
