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Description
It’s the same thing every time he’s over. He’s strictly business, slipping off his jacket and watching you pour him a drink. But as you finish your makeup in the mirror you can see his hands shaking and he’s fidgeting with the button on his collar in the most distracted way. And there’s something in his eyes that’s not quite right.

When you fall back on the bed, he nuzzles your collarbone and then your jaw. But he doesn’t kiss you. He never kisses you, but you don’t expect him to. That’s not how things work. And it’s ok. It’s sort of an unspoken rule-kissing leads to attachment. And that’s the last thing you want, right? Someone that needs you? You always laugh about how fucked-up that seems.

When you wake up in the morning, you can tell something’s different. And he’s sitting at the kitchen table, grinning at your over his Lucky Charms [they’ve been his favorite for as long as you can remember]. Later, you pass him as he’s going to the shower and he catches you around the waist and holds you tightly. For a long second, you’re afraid to breathe. And then the tender moment is over and you’re back to cleaning up the messes he leaves you in. His bowl is sitting on the counter, half-filled with pinkish milk and disintegrating bits of shooting star marshmallows. You finish them off even though you’re not the least bit hungry.

He’s at the door and he’s about to leave, his hair still quite wet and messy (but in an attractive way). When he moves ever so slightly, you’re overcome by his boy smells and you turn away to hid what you can’t identify. But he turns you to face him again and presses his temple to the side of your forehead, murmuring a goodbye that hurts your stomach. It’s too final. And then in the haze of his scent and your pain, you kiss him. Sanity was fleeting in that moment but it comes back and hits your hard. When your lips stop touching his, you can’t read his face for the first time. And that terrifies you. You didn’t just kiss him. You didn’t.

Fuck. Yes, you did.

And you look over your shoulder as you run to the bathroom and that’s the last time you see him. He’s standing in the doorway. His black hair is shiny and it’s sticking up in odd places. Like always. And he smiles at you.

One you’re safe inside your porcelain fallout shelter, you sit on the edge of the tub and laugh until you cry.

But mostly, you cry.

Description
It’s the same thing every time he’s over. He’s strictly business, slipping off his jacket and watching you pour him a drink. But as you finish your makeup in the mirror you can see his hands shaking and he’s fidgeting with the button on his collar in the most distracted way. And there’s something in his eyes that’s not quite right.

When you fall back on the bed, he nuzzles your collarbone and then your jaw. But he doesn’t kiss you. He never kisses you, but you don’t expect him to. That’s not how things work. And it’s ok. It’s sort of an unspoken rule-kissing leads to attachment. And that’s the last thing you want, right? Someone that needs you? You always laugh about how fucked-up that seems.

When you wake up in the morning, you can tell something’s different. And he’s sitting at the kitchen table, grinning at your over his Lucky Charms [they’ve been his favorite for as long as you can remember]. Later, you pass him as he’s going to the shower and he catches you around the waist and holds you tightly. For a long second, you’re afraid to breathe. And then the tender moment is over and you’re back to cleaning up the messes he leaves you in. His bowl is sitting on the counter, half-filled with pinkish milk and disintegrating bits of shooting star marshmallows. You finish them off even though you’re not the least bit hungry.

He’s at the door and he’s about to leave, his hair still quite wet and messy (but in an attractive way). When he moves ever so slightly, you’re overcome by his boy smells and you turn away to hid what you can’t identify. But he turns you to face him again and presses his temple to the side of your forehead, murmuring a goodbye that hurts your stomach. It’s too final. And then in the haze of his scent and your pain, you kiss him. Sanity was fleeting in that moment but it comes back and hits your hard. When your lips stop touching his, you can’t read his face for the first time. And that terrifies you. You didn’t just kiss him. You didn’t.

Fuck. Yes, you did.

And you look over your shoulder as you run to the bathroom and that’s the last time you see him. He’s standing in the doorway. His black hair is shiny and it’s sticking up in odd places. Like always. And he smiles at you.

One you’re safe inside your porcelain fallout shelter, you sit on the edge of the tub and laugh until you cry.

But mostly, you cry.