Skeleton Boy
I was stood at the kitchen counter dishing up the dessert when he came behind me, his hands slipping around my waist and burying his face into my neck. I turned into the comforting gesture, my temple rubbing against his forehead,
“I’m sorry.” I whispered. He stopped nibbling on my ear and breathed in.
“What for?”
“For her. For putting you through that.” One of his hands buried itself in my hair and tugged gently.
“It certainly isn’t something to be sorry for. You told me what to expect. You’re not responsible for her actions.”
I braced my hands against the counter and took a deep breath. All the shame and embarrassment was creeping around my chest, constricting my lungs. A tear escaped from my eye and rolled down my cheek.
“Hey...” He said, surprise seeping into his voice. His hand closed around my wrist and turned me around. “Don’t cry.” He brushed away the tear with a long, pale finger and kissed the spot where it had rested. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s seeing you cry.”
My hands came up and clutched on to his shirt. I buried my face into the crisp whiteness, smelling the skin underneath, that safety, that warmth.
“I love you.” I whispered into him, a quiet confession in amongst all the dirty cooking utensils with the cheesecake abandoned on the counter.
“I love you, too.” His reply came, breath ruffling my hair.
