Warm skin, him standing at the stove not moving

Houseplants on the sill got their water, a little spilled onto the tray. I dropped the bag by the door, kicked the shoes off, and walked to the kitchen. He stood at the stove in the old pants, the fabric pulled a bit at the bottom — third day on the belt already. The elevator had smelled of fresh paint on the way up.

After dinner I sat on the couch and put a show on low. My hand rested on his knee, then moved up slowly, not quite to the waistband. He went still. I did it again, higher. Pulled the hand back when his breathing caught.

At the stove after dinner

At ten I got into bed and asked him to strip to the waist. He did it without a word. I lay beside him, traced my fingers around the lock, kissed his collarbone, then lower, almost to the metal. His breath broke. I turned away. “Enough.” He lay still, warmth coming off his skin.

“Water?”

“No.”

The hour it takes to settle

At half past eleven I got up for water and took my shirt off. Back in bed I asked him to lie close. I stroked his back, then down his thigh, slow, almost to the belt, then back. On the third pass he breathed out, “Vera…” I lifted my hand. “Sleep.”

He stayed awake another half hour. I could hear him lying there breathing. I woke earlier than usual and remembered how he had looked the night before — already past waiting.

The morning after

Today I made coffee and called him to the kitchen. He had stripped the bed; the kettle was on. I hugged him from behind, ran my hands over his chest, no lower. “How much longer?” I asked quietly. “As long as you say.” I nodded, kissed the side of his neck, and went back to finish my coffee.

Sometimes the point is just the tease, no words. During the day I thought of those minutes once or twice. Not because of sex. He simply becomes steadier, more present. I overdid it once; he went quiet the whole evening and I felt clumsy. Small joke on myself: nearly forgot the inhaler was in my bag.

What stayed

I used to think this was only for him. Then I noticed how much I needed to see him go through it and still stay close. No asking, no rushing. And the tea arrives quieter.

It stopped being a game a while ago. It just keeps us where we both need to be.

What is left after

Evenings are short: twenty or thirty minutes, two or three passes, no finish. Eyes on his, nothing spoken. When the look turns inward I stop. Never promise anything. Just touch and walk away. Add one small contact the next morning, nothing more. Once every ten days, no oftener.

He stayed by the stove, hands moving the way they always do now.