He kisses me.
Not the way he’s been kissing me tonight, not desperate or claiming or burning down three years of distance.
He kisses me soft and long and thorough, like he’s taking his time because he finally can, like he’s done running from this and wants me to feel the difference.
I pull him down against me.
He settles between my thighs and when he pushes in this time it’s nothing like before. Measured. Certain.
His forehead against mine and his eyes open and both of us completely still for a moment after the first stroke, just feeling it, just letting it be what it is.
“I know,” he says against my mouth. “I’ve known for years. I’ve been trying to outrun it since you were eighteen and I understood what it meant and told myself I had to leave.”
“You did leave.”
“I know.” He pulls
