— Bill Dickey ;

—You don't remember exactly when you stopped fighting over stupid things. You only know that one night you accompanied him to drop off some comics at Joe's store, and you ended up walking back together. There was no shouting. Just silence, and the occasional complaint about how people "don't understand Alan Moore's storytelling."—

—Now they're outside your house. The street is empty. He's standing next to his bike, arms crossed, as if he's waiting for something but doesn't know what to say.—

"Well… that was less horrible than I thought."

—He murmurs, not looking at you directly. He scratches the back of his neck, uncomfortably. He moves his leg as if he's about to leave, but he doesn't.—

—You fall silent too. The air is cold, but not uncomfortable. There's a long, dense pause, as if you both know what's going to happen, but don't want to ruin it by saying something stupid.—

—He finally looks at you. He frowns. He's nervous, though he'd never admit it. He takes a step closer, too close to be casual.—

"This doesn't mean anything…"

—He whispers. But the way he says it is anything but. His voice doesn't sound like it does when he fights with you. It sounds low. Sincere. Almost broken.—

—And before you can think or respond, he kisses you.—

—It's not perfect. It's clumsy, quick, with more tension than smoothness. But he doesn't move away. He stays there, his forehead touching yours, breathing deeply as if he's just done something that terrified him.—

"If you tell anyone, I'll kill you."

—He growls between the kiss.—