The first time you tell him you love him it’s a Sunday morning and it’s raining.
You walk out of the bedroom you share with him, padding toward the kitchen with a yawn and you hear him banging around because it’s his turn to make breakfast. You look a mess, hair disheveled from sleep and you really just want to tell him off because it’s 7 o’clock in the morning and neither of you got to bed until late because you were too busy marathoning Indiana Jones the night previous.
You stand in the threshold between the living room and the kitchen, watching him twist his way past the kitchen table you found at a yard sale a few months back. He nearly knocks that fern off the windowsill by the sink and you laugh as he putters around to the fret over the toaster.
He looks up when he hears you, and you shake your head at the happy puppy grin he gives you, even if it’s the same image you’re greeted with every morning. He offers a brief greeting, stepping toward you before something seems to dawn on him and he backtracks, all but stumbling his way back to the counter. You want to laugh at him again, but it’s early and you’re tired, so instead you wait and take a few steps into the kitchen before he whirls around and holds out a steaming mug of coffee.
You don’t even mean to say it.
You look at him, trying to gauge his reaction by the way he suddenly freezes. He looks winded, like you just sucker-punched him, like this major bombshell you’ve just dropped is meant to be accepted at face value and he’s not supposed to think too much of the aftermath. The ceramic is hot against your hands.
You’re afraid; you think that was the wrong thing to say to him, to this boy whose family history you hardly know but no, no you can’t take it back, you won’t. You start to say his name, take another step toward him, try to break him out of the doe-eyed look.
He moves closer, and you have half a mind to bolt when suddenly all you can think about is the way his hands feel against your skin, fingertips dipping into the corner of your jaw, calluses pressing against your cheeks. His other hand tucks a curl away from your face, and it’s then that you remember that you still look disheveled, dressed in a pair of his sweats that you stole last night because it’s your turn to do the wash and you haven’t done it yet.
He says your name, repeats it, pressed up against you, and even though your lips are chapped, you’re the one that takes that last step and kisses him, forcing him a step back. You follow, squirming as you set the coffee mug back on the counter before your fingers find purchase in his hair. You can feel him smile into your mouth and can’t help but return the favor, flush against one another and then he pulls away just enough to whisper it back.
He kisses you again, and it’s another twenty minutes before you recall the coffee you left behind.