Harder.
Like saying my name broke the last thing that was holding him back.
Both hands sliding into my hair.
• • •
And I feel it — the way his breath goes ragged — the way his hands aren’t steady — the way he’s shaking slightly and kissing me anyway —
Like he’s been fighting this.
For years.
And just —
lost.
He walks me back.
Not roughly.
Just inevitably.
Like gravity.
Until my back hits the wall and he’s right there — right there — and there’s nowhere to go and I don’t want to go anywhere.
I could stay trapped like this forever.
• • •
“I’ve —” he starts.
Stops.
His forehead drops to mine.
Eyes closed.
Chest heaving.
Like he’s trying to find something and can’t.
“I’ve wanted —”
• • •
He can’t finish it.
He never could say it.
So I pull him back in.
Because I don’t need the words.
I have eight years of evidence.
Rooftops and kitchen floors and hands in the dark.
