Where His Hands Rest

He walks ahead just enough to let me follow without feeling lost. Not commanding just knowing the way. His smile: half mischief, half mercy. His arms, the first time, wrapped around me like they’d done it before in some other life where we already knew this was safe. The scent of him a drug I didn’t know I’d been craving. Nights are warmer than I like, but he needs my heat, so I let him have it. A leg, a wrist, a breath pressed to his back. We don’t always touch, but I feel him anyway the way trees feel wind without needing to move. He cooks breakfast with care. I pretend not to notice how deliberate his hands are when slicing salad. He’s nourishing us without saying the word love. And when I break, he doesn’t fix he stays. Ты моя тихая сила