He carried my bag̶
flowery, girlish, too pink.
He didnʼt flinch.
Didnʼt joke.
Didnʼt care.
Just held it like
it belonged to him too.
Then came the jacket̶
that brown corduroy thing
that smelled like vanilla,
warmth,
and him.
He offered it,
but i shook my head.
"youʼll be cold," i said.
He smiled,
small and soft,
and slipped it back on.
The wind whispered past
as we stood by his bike.
I shivered̶just a little.
and then̶
his voice,
low, gentle,
like it knew how to touch my ribs
without fingers:
"Put your hands inside my jacket."
So i did.
My hands disappeared
into the warmth between us.
My fingers met his body̶
and stayed.
His breath caught,
but he didnʼt pull away.
He let me hold him
in that small
secret way.
His hand reached back̶
not to ask,
not to pull̶
just to gently run his thumb
over my knuckles.
Slow.
Careful.
Tender.
Like it meant something.
Like i meant something.
And in that moment,
i didnʼt care
where we were going.
Or that this ride
would end.
I just held on.
And let the wind wrap
around our not-quite love.