Silence, silence, silence—for too long this is all you are met with. As it extends through the seconds (and who is to say it is not a lifetime that passes?), your heartbeat grows louder, your face becoming hot with the promise of tears, your legs itching to turn and flee before your heart breaks,  shatters within his grasp. Your body only grows more tense, your mind beginning to race with a million questions, a trillion fears, without you being able to latch on to a single one, until he cranes his neck to look at you, something held within those green eyes.  ‘I’m afraid it’ll take longer than a moment to get to know me, darling,’ It is only simple words, only a strand of a thought, the ghost of a touch, but suddenly your breath is caught in your throat, your mind all but hushed, your heart utterly ablaze. ‘but I think that’s time I’m willing to give–’  

Before long, it is more than justa touch, his lips moving along your slender frame, your skin tingling anew beneath each and every inch of warm breath, each sweet caress. You cannot help but question how many other women he has had, what they had meant, what this means—just what you mean—if it would ever be enough. It is only as his weight sinks in to you that you lose your train of thought, inhaling sharply beneath it, against the knot in your stomach as you lose all sense of self, of where you end and he begins; falling into the moments of unity, into things you never cared to know existed.


•       •       •

It is in his embrace that you pull yourself closer to him, resting your head against his shoulder, lips playing with stray tendrils of his curly hair. It is in his embrace, in the afterglow of the sweetness that has found the two of you, that you feel invulnerable, untouchable. In his embrace that you feel complete. For moments (and who is to say it is not a lifetime, a thousand lifetimes, when an eternity with him would only leave you wanting more) you stay like this, running your muzzle along his shoulder absentmindedly, reveling in your shared warmth, the singularity that is him and all that he means; in the way that you can feel his heartbeat against your skin, so close. It is with the same absentmindedness that your lips move to speak three words that do not mean nearly enough to summarize the bliss that has ensnared you.

“I—“ The sound of your own voice startles you, pulls you from your waking dream, your body becoming rigid, your heart palpitating at the realization of what was to be said, of just how natural it felt, for all of the things that you work so hard to deny to yourself, to him. There is a prick of betrayal that rests there; of anger for your stupidity, of hurt. In this moment you are thankful that he cannot see the look upon your face, feel the way that your heart hangs so very heavy.

(If he looked, what would he see?)

It is after minutes of silent fretting, dwelling, that you finally turn your head towards his, smiling once more, despite the writhing of your heart, all the ways it feels so wrong to be separate from him, so right to be near him, to want him, all the ways that you wish things could be different; you smile because he is beautiful, because even if your heart will never be sated, not by him, you cannot imagine the darkness it would be to wake up knowing that he is not there. It is because of this that you place a kiss upon the tender skin of his nose, breathing him yet again for just moments, moments, moments, before finding different words to say, words that would not make you lose him; words that are easy to forget, for all that they mean to you. Meanings that you have repeated time and time again, that you have avoided with nearly pathetic consistency.   

“I’m glad that I found you.”

Your brows furrow as the words resonate, the vulnerability you have exposed yourself to becoming altogether too much for a moment like this. You force a laugh then, leaning to push in to his shoulder playfully, resorting to the teasing nature that had always provided a scapegoat to such sensitive matters, allowed things to be said without repercussion. You are unsure of the appropriateness of it, but you reach for the comfort of familiarity as if it were habit. “It seems my making a fool out of myself left more of an impression than I realized.”