We kissed again last night.
And then we didn’t stop.
It was slow at first, soft, like we both expected it to break. But it didn’t. It deepened. Heated. Took on gravity. I touched the small of his back and he gasped like it hurt, like it healed. I said his name and he said mine like a prayer that had never been answered until now.
And then there was no room for metaphor. No need for caution. We were skin and breath and pulse, and I forgot what it meant to be immortal. I forgot what it meant to be alone.
After, he curled against me and buried his face in my shoulder. I ran my hand through his hair until the shaking stopped. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to.
Something had changed. Not just in him. In me.
I thought I knew love. I thought I’d cataloged it, studied it, practiced its symphony across centuries. But this wasn’t a concept. This was a fault line splitting open beneath my ribs.
And for the briefest, most dangerous moment… I wanted to tell him.
I almost did. The words climbed to the back of my throat, aching for release. He would have listened. He would have believed me. I was sure of it.
But with belief comes consequence.
There is only one rule that governs me, old and cruel and absolute: they must not know.
And to break that rule is not just to fall, but to drag him down with me. To invite the attention of forces that do not forgive. That do not forget. That erase.
I looked at him—his face slack with sleep, lips still parted in the shape of my name—and I knew.
I couldn’t tell him.
Because I loved him.
