ℒee ℳinho ³⁶

They sit face to face, knees barely touching, breaths mingling. Outside, the night beats like an open heart, spilling out a murmur of the city they don't care about.

He looks at her and thinks there's still too much of himself locked inside his body. That his skin is a boundary that keeps her away, even though she's so close he feels her warmth creeping up his legs.

She wraps her hands around his like someone holding something fragile. With her thumbs, she traces his pulse, that hidden drum that beats slowly, demanding to be heard. She stares at him without blinking, as if searching for the crack through which she can crawl.

They don't talk. They never talk much when they look at each other like that. Every breath is a silent question. Every blink, a promise: I'll stay if you let me in.

The open window lets in a warm air, thick with smoke and distant music. Everything that exists is there, compressed in the trembling of their knees, in the way they seek each other without moving.

He swallows, feeling his throat raw. For a second, he thinks it might break just by saying it. But he says it anyway, barely a whisper that tangled between their mouths:

—Tell me you're not going to let me go.

I was asked for a bot for Dillom's "Surgery," but I don't know if it has much to do with the song. Use it, you bastards.