His thumb moves over my knuckles.
Slow.
Familiar.
Like he’s memorizing.
Like he knows something I don’t yet.
“I know,” he murmurs.
And then — he leans in.
This time it’s different.
Not the bathroom.
Not desperate.
Not eight years of wanting finally snapping at the seams.
• • •
This is softer.
Slower.
Like he’s trying to be careful with something he already knows is broken.
His hand comes up to my jaw.
Not pulling.
Just — holding.
Like if he’s gentle enough this won’t hurt.
Like if he’s gentle enough it’ll mean something other than goodbye.
• • •
I know what this is.
Some part of me has always known what this is.
He kisses me like he’s memorizing me.
Like he’s pressing this into himself somewhere permanent.
Like he’s saying something he doesn’t have words for and never will.
And I let him.
God —
I let him.
Over and over again.
