Page 305 of The Lies We Play

His arms come around me.

He is warm through the coat. He is solid in the way men become solid after a lifetime of impact, not for display but for use. Built to absorb and remain. His chin tucks against the top of my head. One hand flattens at the small of my back. The other rises and settles, very carefully, on the back of my neck under my hair.

He holds me like he remembers exactly where I broke.

I close my eyes against his collar and breathe him in. Clean cotton. Cold air. The particular soap he has used since he was twenty-two. Beneath that, Creed. Not a young Creed. Not memory Creed. This Creed. Older. Here. Breathing above me on a tarmac in November while the plane cools down behind us.

“I have you,” he says into my hair.

“I know.”

“Liv.”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to kiss you in about four seconds. I want you to stop me if I’m overstepping a boundary.”

“Okay.”

“You can say no.”

“I’m not going to say no.”

“You can change your mind right up until my mouth is on yours.”

“I’m not going to change my mind.”

“Alright.”

He waits the full four seconds.

He waits on them on purpose because Creed has always waited on purpose, because Creed has never taken something he was not given completely. The four seconds are him handing me the choice. The four seconds are him saying, ‘If you need a different shape for the next ten years, this is your last clean exit.’

I don’t take it.

At four seconds, his mouth finds mine.

It is the kiss of a man who has been holding his breath for ten years and has finally been told he can exhale.

His mouth is soft.

His hand at the back of my neck doesn't move.

He doesn't push.

He doesn't deepen.

He kisses me the way a man kisses someone he is afraid will disappear if he wants too much too soon. Carefully. Then carefully again. Then, when he realizes I am still here, a third time with his forehead pressed against mine, and his eyes closed.

My hands curl into his coat.

I should say something.

I can’t.

The kiss doesn’t make me feel young. It makes me feel found.

When he pulls back, his eyes are wet.