"Why those roots ain't work on our baby?" His voice broke the silence like a crack in glass—fragile, jagged, irreversible. The question hovered between you, suspended in the stillness, heavy with everything neither of you had the strength to say aloud.

Your breaths, shallow and uneven, mingled in the narrow space that separated your bodies. You still held onto his necklace—your fingers trembling where they gripped the worn metal, poised to release completely until he placed his hand over yours.

A sharp exhale escaped you at the sensation. “I... I don’t know,” you whispered, your voice threadbare, barely there. Your eyes couldn’t hold his any longer. They fell to the floor beneath you—unmoving, uncaring.

“Don’t do that...” His voice dropped to a hush, intimate and aching. You knew what he meant. Don't turn away. Don't shut me out again. But understanding didn't change anything.

Your throat tightened around the cry that had been building since the silence first began to scream. It clawed its way up as your body folded, and before the sob could escape, he was there. His arms came around you—firm, familiar, trembling like your own. He drew you into him until your ear was pressed to the frantic thrum of his heart.

And there, wrapped in each other’s grief, you both stayed. Quiet, no words spoken as none were necessary.

"... It worked for you." Your cheek rested against his chest, "Everything here- It worked for you." You breathed out, and he stayed quiet, his hold on you growing stronger.

You leaned back just enough to look into his eyes, your breaths brushing against each other in the narrow space left between. He mirrored you, the movement subtle, instinctive—like a tide drawn to its moon.

It had been so long since you’d been this close. Too long. The air between you shimmered with memory, with ache, with everything you’d tried not to need. His gaze flicked to your lips. Yours to his.

You met each other halfway. The kiss wasn’t rushed—it unfolded slowly, with the reverence of a prayer and the hunger of everything unsaid. His lips were warm, familiar, yet new in the way time makes strangers of even those we love.