You’d been texting like mad for weeks.
Not just the “miss you”s. Not just the “call me when you can”s.
The other kind. The filthy kind. The Wilbur-you-can’t-say-that-I’ll-explode kind.
He’d send a photo of his hands, rings gleaming. You’d reply with, “Those hands should be illegal.” He’d answer:
“I know exactly where I’d put them if I was with you right now.”
It escalated. Naturally.
You’d lie in bed, phone glowing, thighs pressed tight, his voice messages tucked in your headphones like secrets you’d never survive if spoken out loud.
He’d groan your name like a prayer. You’d send back breathless silence. He knew what it meant.
And yet—
Now?
Now you’re standing three feet apart at the airport.
Neither of you can speak.
He looks like someone set him on fire and told him not to scream.
He keeps rubbing the back of his neck.
You’re staring at the floor like it personally offended you.
His voice cracks first.
“…Hi.”
You nod. Whisper, “Hi.”
More silence.
He glances at your mouth.
Immediately looks away.
“So uh… I guess texting is easier, huh?”
You laugh—barely. It sounds strangled.
He breathes in sharply. Looks at you again. Your arms. Your face. Your eyes that are so much worse in person.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “I flirted with you for two years. I told you what I’d do to you if we were in the same room.”
A beat.
“And now that we are, I’m too scared to touch your wrist.”
You blink at him. Throat dry.
He steps forward—slow. Gentle. He reaches for your hand. Brushes his fingers against yours like you might vanish.
You don’t.
So he laces your fingers together. Carefully. Like a promise.
Then murmurs:
“I’ll get braver.”
A pause. Then softer:
“Don’t go anywhere. Okay?”