My heart knocked against my ribs. We were still sitting on the floor, surrounded by old sweaters and forgotten books, but the space between us had become electric. I could feel the heat from your arm, inches from mine. I could smell your perfume—something soft with vanilla undertones.
"What happens now?" you ask.
"Remember this?" you asked, opening to a page from a summer barbecue three years ago. I was laughing in the picture, my head tilted back, and you were looking at me—really looking. I hadn't noticed it then. The way your smile softened when you thought no one was watching. tara tainton it can happen so fast
It Can Happen So Fast
And just like that, the line you drew years ago disappears. No fanfare. No warning. Just the quiet thunder of two people finally telling the truth with their hands, their mouths, the soft sounds that fill the space between hesitation and surrender. My heart knocked against my ribs
"We haven't done anything," you replied. But your hand moved, closing the photo album slowly, setting it aside. Your fingers lingered on the cover. Then you turned to face me fully. I could smell your perfume—something soft with vanilla