Moonlight spills through the window, cutting silver across his face and illuminating the scars on the left side.
He looks at me, his eyes red-rimmed, his mouth trembling, and the sight of him makes it damn near impossible for me not to leave.
I brush the hair from his face, my fingertips trailing down his jaw. “You look at me like this is the last time,” I whisper.
His voice cracks. “Isn’t it?”
I shake my head as my thumb traces his lower lip. “I’ll be back. I promise.”
For a heartbeat, neither of us breathes.
The rain has quieted to a soft, steady murmur outside, but inside his home, everything feels suspended; time, sound, and the ache that’s been living in my heart foryears.
His eyes are locked on mine, brimming with a longing so raw it makes my chest ache. His hands rest on my waist, thumbs tracing slow, absent arcs over the wet denim of my jeans.
He leans in first, brushing his nose with mine before kissing me.
The kiss begins so softly it barely registers; just the warm press of his lips to mine, a question wrapped in tenderness.
He then deepens it slowly, as our tongues meet in a gentle, searching rhythm that tastes like rain, salt, and everything we’re trying not to say goodbye to yet.
My fingers slide into his damp hair as his hands tighten on my waist, pulling me forward until I’m straddling him on the edge of the bed.
We finally part, pressing our foreheads together, breathing each other’s air.
He doesn’t speak right away as he just looks at me, until I feel the weight of his gaze settle deep behind my ribs.
So quietly, I almost miss it over the sound of the rain.
“I’m going to miss touching you like this.”
His hands slide up my sides as his thumbs brush the wet fabric over my ribs.
He lifts my tube top, slipping it off my shoulders one at a time, then loops it off my neck.
The soaked cotton clings stubbornly for a second, reluctant to let go, but he peels it down gently, exposing the swell of my breasts.
He exhales, shaky, almost pained.
“God, Layla…” His voice cracks on my name. “Look at you.”
His palms glide up my arms, over my shoulders, down the sides of my breasts, never squeezing, just tracing, memorizing as his thumbs brush the undersides, circling the tight peaks of my nipples with the lightest pressure.
Goosebumps race across my skin despite the warmth of his house.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, eyes tracing every inch he’s uncovered. “Every single part of you. I still can’t believe you’re real sometimes.”
Tears prick my eyes again. I reach for him as my fingers tremble, tugging at the hem of his soaked T-shirt.
He helps me lift it over his head, his arms flexing, his muscles shifting under skin marked by the years he’s lived before me.
His shirt lands beside my tube top.
I trace the old scars across his chest, my fingertips following them slowly, reverently.
“You’re beautiful as well,” I whisper, my voice carrying emotion. “Every scar, every mark, they’re evidence of you surviving everything that once threatened to take you from me before I even knew you existed.”
He swallows hard as his hands come up to cup my face, his thumbs brushing the tears that have slipped free.
