Not like that first wild rush in Saint Lucia.
Not like all them heated moments where clothes was flyin’ and words was flyin’ faster.
This felt like somethin’ solid.
“So what we callin’ this, then?” he asked, mouth quirkin’ up. “Just so we clear.”
I sucked my teeth. “You really need a label?”
“Yes,” he said. “I do. ‘Cause I’m not about to let nobody else call you theirs in front of me and be confused about why they losin’ teeth.”
I laughed. “You stupid.”
He squeezed my hand. “I’m serious, Melissa.”
I held his eyes.
“I’m your woman,” I said finally. “Since that’s the word you like. You my man.”
The way his face lit up at that almost made me look away.
Almost.
“Aight then,” he said, voice low and pleased. “Say less.”
We didn’t rush into sex after that.
We sat there talkin’.
About dumb, and real shit.
How he was sellin’ off the hot parts of his business.
How I wanted to do more with my own bag, maybe build somethin’ bigger than just showin’ up at events.
How we both been scared in different ways.
At some point, the sun dipped down and the backyard lights kicked on.
I ended up slidin’ my chair ‘round the table until I was right next to him.
He pulled me between his legs, my back to his chest, his arms wrapped loose around my waist.
We sat like that, quiet.
His chin on my shoulder, his breath warm on my neck.
“You know this not gon’ magically be easy just ‘cause we said the words, right?” I spoke just above a whisper.
“I know,” he said. “But at least now we sayin’ the same words. That’s a start.”
I smiled, restin’ my hands on his forearms.
For the first time in a long time, love ain’t feel like somethin’ that was just happenin’ to me.
It felt like somethin’ I picked on purpose.
With a man who was just as broken and just as willing as I was.
