a proposal, of sorts. ✔️

eighteen

The flower in his hand takes a smile from me before I can suppress it. The flower of a moonberry, its white petals soft in his hand, curling out with pride. He places it on my end table, the action colored with apology.

"What are you reading tonight?" he asks softly, taking his place on the other side of the sofa. I lift my feet so he can settle in comfortably, the intention to sit upright evident in my actions. He stops the movement with a hand on my ankle, and so my feet lay on his lap.

"The Tellings of a Crone," I tell him as he pulls his own novel out. "It follows the life's story of a witch."

He smiles at me. "An interesting choice. Is it any good?"

I nod my answer. "The story is quite compelling. What are you reading?"

"By Her Dying Breath. Have you read it?" The book is laid on the armrest of the couch now, his hand curled around the spine.

"Yes. A few months ago, I believe," I inform. Silence settles over us after that, and I can't decide whether it's comfortable or not. His left hand holds his book and his right strokes my foot, following a path up my exposed calf. The absences of his caresses as he turns a page are cold and wanting.

I take the disguise of my novel to peer up at him above the pages, watching his eyes trained on the pages, black hair spilling over from behind his ears to hide him from me and the novel from him. My hand twitches with the intention to sweep a curl or two behind his ears or lend him a ribbon, but I catch myself before I can beckon embarrassment.

I find my vision catches for too long on his lips and the lump on his neck, an intrusive thought wondering how they would taste on my tongue. I force the ideas down as a heavy gulp in my throat. These were not the thoughts of uneasy friends. These were the thoughts of a lover.

Yet, I didn't pull away from his gentle grasp and let him continue his soft teases from my foot to my knee.