Our eyes met over the open pages. Something shifted—subtle as a change in air pressure before a storm. You didn't look away. Neither did I.
When I opened them, you were closer. Close enough that I could see the gold flecks in your irises. Close enough that breathing felt like a shared act. tara tainton it can happen so fast
The first kiss was soft, almost tentative. A question asked in slow motion. But the second—the second was a discovery. Your hand slid to the back of my neck, and mine found your waist, and the world outside that closet door ceased to exist. Our eyes met over the open pages
"We haven't done anything," you replied. But your hand moved, closing the photo album slowly, setting it aside. Your fingers lingered on the cover. Then you turned to face me fully. Neither did I
It can happen so fast. One minute you're sorting through winter coats, and the next you're tangled on the floor with someone who's been a footnote in your life for years, suddenly becoming the whole story. Your back presses into the carpet, and her weight settles over you, and you realize you've been hungry for this without knowing it.
You nodded, your fingers tracing the edge of the photograph. "You left early. Said you had a headache."