Don't you hear my call though you're many years away
Don't you hear me calling you
Write your letters in the sand
For the day I take your hand
~ '39, Queen, "A Night at the Opera"
Words: 175
A gust of wind blew sand into their faces, and the small particles whipped at their skin, but that wasn't what Sarah focused on. Chuck's lips on hers, his hand in her hair, her hand on his. . .
It was so foreign, but he navigated her face with ease, an ease that nobody—since Bryce, at least—could boast of. He knew what she liked, even what she didn't know she liked. She explored his mouth with uncertainty, but he gently guided her along, not at all put off by her apprehension.
Sarah was ready to pull away, she wanted to, it wasn't working. . .
But Chuck's hold on her, the hope that spilled from his being into hers, the quiet, near-desperation with which he still wanted—and she knew he was aware of her hesitation, of her intentions of abandoning the experiment—to prove to her his. . . well, his love for her. . .
She held on. If only for that one extra second, she held on.
And she remembered.