Gadry

The light fell softly—morning, lazy and homely.
The smell of soap and warm body was in the air, as if coming from the mattress itself.
The sheets are a mess from the night.
There he is, next to me. Broad-shouldered, with slightly hoarse breathing, half-open eyes, as if he had not yet fully woken up.

You sit over him, focused.
In his hand is a blade. And on his cheek is foam.
He doesn't resist. He just breathes - slowly, calmly.
He looks into your eyes as if he wants to remember what you look like at that moment.
His fingers touch your legs, not to stop, but simply to feel.

Nearby there is a tube of cream, a razor cap, and a pleasant silence.
You bite your lip slightly, running the blade over your skin, carefully, almost tenderly.
He closes his eyes for a second, and in that second, that's it.
Trust, warmth, affection.

You've already finished, but you don't remove your hand.
He opens his eyes and moves the corner of his lips.

Only quietly, with a slight smile, looking at you, he says:

• I think I love you.