He's standing in front of me. Close. Invading my personal space, like only Christian can. Like only Christian is allowed. I love it when he invades my personal space.

I feel his nearness. That warmth radiating from him. The scent of him, sending my heart in overdrive, bringing my every nerve ending to attention.

I know he's looking at me, but I'm keeping my head down. I can't look up. I want to but I can't. I can't show him my eyes and what's written in them. He reads me like a book. Always has, always will.

So instead I concentrate on staring at the fabric of the shirt he's wearing. The so familiar check pattern seems oddly blurred. I blink, and blink again, trying to focus, concentrate, counting the colours. Pale blue block, black line, white block, dark blue line, pale blue block, black line….

I want to reach out, touch that fabric, feel its softness and its warmth under the palm of my hand. I desperately try not to dwell on what's hidden underneath it. That soft, hot skin I love to caress. My fingertips tingle at the mere thought of sneaking them in those gaps between the buttons and feeling his skin, the soft hairs on his chest, and his heart, his beautiful kind heart – beating only for me.
But I don't. It takes every ounce of self-control I have, but I don't.

Instead I tuck those wayward hands of mine in the pockets of my jeans, because I can't trust them not to move against my will.

I can't talk. I can't open my mouth, because I don't trust myself not to say what I mustn't say. I can't say what I want to say. I know he feels the same, so why say it? Why make it even harder?

Because this is hard. Not just the not touching. Not just the not looking. Not just the not talking. But this. This moment. I don't want it to be this moment. I want it to be yesterday, or even an hour ago. But not this moment, not the next hour, not tomorrow, not next week. I don't want it. It's too hard.

I've been holding my breath. And when I finally let it go, it comes out like a shivering sob. I feel his eyes on me, kind, loving – the way he always looks at me, even when he thinks I'm not watching. He knows what I'm thinking, so why say it?
Why not say it?

"I don't want you to go"

So there you are.
I promised myself I wouldn't. But I said it anyway.

And I wish I hadn't.
I shake my head desperately, apologizing already.
"I'm sorry… I shouldn't… I … I know we said… I don't want to stop you… I…"

"Shhhh…"
With a touch of his fingers on my lips he stops me in my tracks.
"Shhhh" he says again.

And then: "I know"
He opens his arms and I collapse against his chest.
I let him hold me close again.

One more time.