Page 54 of One Room Vacancy
I lean over to gently shut off the burner on the stove before turning my attention to her.
I kiss her again, deeper this time, but still slow, still careful. And when her hand slides up the back of my neck, anchoring herself there, something breaks open in me.
I pull her into me fully, lift her gently off the floor, and she wraps her legs around my waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask where we’re going.
She knows.
I carry her down the hall, her mouth warm against my throat, her fingers fisting in my shirt as if she’s afraid I’ll change my mind.
But I won’t.
Not this time.
The door creaks open with the touch of my foot, and I don’t bother with the light. The room glows dimly from the hallway behind us, just enough to see the outline of her face as I move toward the bed.
I lower her onto the mattress slowly, like she’s something fragile. Like this matters.
Because it does.
She looks up at me, wide-eyed, her braids spilling across my pillow, streaked through with strands of blue. The color catches in the soft light, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
She used to do that when we first met—play with color, always trying something new with her appearance, with the way she took up space. Her style changed with her moods; her hair always included some shade of vibrant—burgundy, teal, gold, loud and beautiful and hers.
But somewhere along the way, that color drained. I don’t know if it was life, or hurt, or me. Probably some mix of all three. Her edges got quieter, her light pulled inward. The creativity that used to radiate from her dulled like she didn’t see the point anymore.
But now?—
Now the blue is back, woven through like a quiet declaration.
And I can’t stop looking at her.
She doesn’t say anything.
She doesn’t have to.
I settle beside her and kiss her again—softer than before, slower, like I’m learning her all over again.
And she lets me.
Her hands come up to frame my face, thumbs brushing along my jaw. Her mouth parts against mine and I swear it feels like forgiveness, like relief, like something we’ve both been aching toward without knowing how to ask for it.
When I slide my hand beneath her tank top, she breathes out like she’s been holding it in for years. I don’t rush. I don’t fumble. I just touch her—slow, reverent, like she’s something I’m choosing this time. Not falling into. Not escaping with.Choosing.
She sits up just enough to pull her shirt over her head, and I follow her lead, peeling off mine and letting it fall to the floor.
Our eyes lock.
This is not how it’s ever been, not between us, not like this.
Because this isn’t just sex.
It’s not about release or nostalgia or the high of pretending we don’t care.
This is something else, something that feels terrifying in its simplicity.
And I think we both know it.
