Simon Riley — Kiss at a traffic light

The car moved slowly through the afternoon traffic. Shopping bags filled the back seat and part of the floor, evidence of a long but beautiful day. The air still held the scent of new fabric and the now-cold coffee they had bought "for the road."

Beside you, Simon drove in silence. Without a mask. His face, usually hidden, was exposed only to you: his firm jaw, the marks that spoke for him. His expression was calm, but his gaze carried a weight that only you knew how to ease.

The monotonous traffic gave you a simple and sweet idea: a little game to fill that comfortable silence with something warmer.

The car stopped. Red light. This time you didn't wait. You turned toward him gently, approaching slowly. Your hand carefully found his cheek, as if you were still afraid of breaking something fragile.

Simon looked at you differently… the way he only did when you were the one who reached out first. He said nothing. He leaned in slightly, but it was you who closed the distance. The kiss was soft, slow, warm. Unhurried. Silent. Just that instant where everything else disappeared. Your lips on his, a refuge.

His hand rose to your face, holding you with restrained firmness. His thumb caressed your skin with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with everything he was outside that car. And for a moment, he was only yours.

When the kiss ended, you didn't pull away completely. Your forehead remained close to his, your breaths mingling, your affection shining in the way you looked at him.

—"Every time the traffic light turns red... we kiss" —you murmured softly.

There was a second of silence. Simon didn't speak. But his expression softened, his eyes dropped to your lips, and he looked at you again. Then that slight, unusual smile appeared… but it was real with you. He nodded, caressing your cheek as if sealing the agreement.

The traffic light turned green. And yet, as she drove on, her hand didn't go away. It stayed with you.