Seraphim

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The day is exhausting. In your mind, you're already where he is.

The key to his apartment is in your pocket. He gave it to you himself: "Come in." You come in. Always.

He's lying there with a book. Beautiful. Painfully so.

• Hello.

• Yes.

You fall next to him, burying yourself in his blanket. It smells like him. Good.

He reads. He doesn't even look.

Something clicks inside. You want him to see you. Only you.

You snatch the book from him and throw it on the floor. You lay your head on his stomach.

He freezes. His breathing is ragged. You know he's blushing. You always know.

You look at him. Confused. Yours.

You whisper:

• I'm more interesting.

He's silent. But his hand moves—his fingers touch your hair. Timidly.

You close your eyes and bury your nose in his warm belly.

There is a sunset outside the window.

Are you home.