He didn’t know why she was at his door, only that she looked terribly lonely and he never wanted to hold her more. Offering his home to her, he stepped aside and she entered. She looked quite out of place and uncomfortable and sad. In the kitchen, he left her to herself in the living room and made her favorite tea that he had. He kept it because whenever he particularly missed her, he’d breathe some of it in and try not to miss her so much.
Before he left with the cup in hand he took a deep breath and straightened himself. It had been a while since she was last over. Those times were long gone and his chest was restricted from the anxiousness. He missed her.
She was sitting down on his leather couch, arms folded neatly in her lap. He passed her the cup and the smile was half-assed and it made him bite his lip. This wasn’t how he liked to remember her.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” She sipped from it and he said it was no problem and then it was quiet. The question was still in the air of why she was even there – not that he was complaining.
It was awkward. It was stiff. He shifted in the seat adjacent to the sofa and she stared into the dark liquid in the mug and looked deep in thought and on the edge of… Well, he didn’t know. Maybe she had something to say. Maybe she had something on her mind, though, she always did. Maybe something had happened.
But she wasn’t talking. His eyes traced the curve of her mouth and found himself trying to swallow the newly formed lump in his throat. The way her eyelashes fluttered against her cheek was familiar and she was just as gorgeous as he remembered.
Her eyebrows furrowed and she sucked in a deep breath. “I-I’m sorry, I just,” she stood and placed the cup down, her watery eyes averted, “I really don’t know why I’m here, I’m sorry, I should – .”
But he was already up and had her face in his hands and her lips felt so soft. She pushed her body into his and he kissed her again. And again. Over and over and she was crying. He stopped to ask why but she spoke first.
Low and quiet, trying not to cry and her lips just centimeters away, she said, “Say that you love me. I really need to hear it; I don’t care if it’s true.”
“I do,” He told her, low and quiet and true, “I love you.”
More feverish kisses and his hands were tangled in her hair and she was trying desperately to get him closer. Hands gripping cloth and small gasps for air. “I don’t care if it’s not true,” she whispered to him again.
“I love you,” he repeated.
And she whispered, “I love you,” and he wished it didn’t hurt when she said it. And he wished she meant it like he meant it. And he wished she knew that he loved her as much as he could. And he wished that this wouldn’t be a one-time-thing.
But it was.