Where Atoms Collide

The second the door clicked shut, his mouth was on mine.

Not desperate — just deliberate. Like he wanted to taste the decision I’d made.

I kissed him back like I needed to confirm it.

We stumbled two steps into the room, tangled somewhere between the edge of the rug and the gravity of the night. His towel slipped from his shoulder. My fingers curled in the hem of his sweatpants. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t planning. I was here.

He broke the kiss first, barely, his forehead resting against mine, breath shallow.

“What are you doing here?” he whispered, not accusing — just… amazed.

I let the question sit between us for a moment.

Then I smiled.

And said, “Trying to be alive instead of perfect.”

His breath caught — just slightly.

And then he kissed me again.

Slower this time.

Like he knew exactly what I meant.

His breath caught — just slightly.

And then he kissed me again.

Slower this time.

Like he knew exactly what I meant.

When he finally pulled back, his fingers skimmed my chest, featherlight. He let them fall away like he didn’t trust himself to keep them there.

“I was just about to get in the shower,” he said.

There was a beat.

Then he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of his sweatshorts, and dropped them to the floor.

And I saw him.

All of him.

And for half a second, I didn’t breathe.

Not because I was shocked — I’d imagined this more times than I cared to admit — but because the reality was so much better. Not just his body, but the way he stood there like it was nothing. No shame, no showboating. Just him. Unfiltered. Available.

He didn’t move. Just waited.

Then, softly: “Care to join me?”

My mouth went dry.