She nudges her shoulder lightly against his, subtle and familiar. Not a scene, not something anyone else would notice, just a private little press that says I’m here. With you. He feels it everywhere.
Because loving her isn’t dramatic. It isn’t fireworks or big declarations.
It’s her brushing past him and his pulse jumping.
It’s her slipping her hand into his in the back of a car and his entire body settling.
It’s the sound of her voice when she’s tired, her sarcasm when she’s being a menace, her warmth when she’s trying not to fuss over him. It’s her laugh when he says something dry just to pull it out of her.
It’s all the small, ordinary things that somehow feel like they’re rebuilding him piece by piece.
She leans into him again, a quiet check-in, one of their wordless signals. He answers with the soft brush of his fingers against the back of her hand.
I’m okay. Better now.
She smiles, barely there, but real, and he feels it down to his bones.
Loving her feels like standing in sunlight after years of being cold without knowing it. Like he spent half his life missing something he didn’t realize he needed until she walked into his orbit and handed it to him with that warm, easy smile that says
this is yours.
termites of the page 