FORTY-ONE | HOME

We looked through the books until the evening drew in, the warped glass of the windows dispersing the orange light of the streetlamps from outside into curved spirals and fragmented dots. It looked like golden-hued diamonds, scattered across a dark and turbulent sea.

Skye stayed close as we searched, peppering my cheeks with kisses whenever I brushed past him to tug a heavy book out from the shelves. It was sweet, and I imagined myself blushing each and every time. 

I started to do the same, running my fingers along his bare forearm, or tracing the curve of his neck with my lips, as I stretched up or bent down. It was easy, light and teasing, but with an undercurrent of hot, heady passion, and of warmth, that kept the golden string between our hearts taut. I could feel him, steady and thrumming, at the other end of our shared bond, and he felt like home.

But eventually my phone buzzed, vibrating insistently against