The First Language
The world shrinks to a whisper. Breath. Skin. The almost-audible hum of hearts remembering what it feels like to be new again.
He guides without asking. Fingers trace the curve of her back until she melts into the space between silence and surrender. The words stop mattering. The moment speaks its own language… one older than caution, newer than reason.
Her pulse betrays her first. A trembling rush that carries every unspoken thing… the promise, the disbelief that something so simple could still feel this pure. She leans in, and his hands find her hips like they’ve been there for lifetimes. He doesn’t have to tell her what it means; she already knows.
“This,” he murmurs against her skin, “is where it begins again.”
And for a heartbeat, everything resets. The weight of the years, the noise of the world… gone. Only the wild pulse of rediscovery remains.
The honeymoon phase, they say, never lasts. But they never met two people stubborn enough to make it a religion.
