All My Minutes
I’M STILL WATCHING Eli, hearing the SUV go just because the sound is there, not because it matters.
Nothing else matters. And if that’s not clear by now, let me make it crystal.
My free hand reaches up, cups his cheek.
His eyes are on me instantly, even more red-rimmed, more glassy than before.
His hand trembles, holding mine, fingers threading together.
The other too, unsure, hovering at my waist. He’s not smiling, but he’s trying to, little tugs at his lips that try their hardest to hold on.
Because nothing I said to Mom was about him. All things considered, nothing really changed between us in the last ten minutes.
The next ten will be different. And then onward. Until I have no more minutes to give.
But they’ll be his. All my minutes.
“I love you,” I tell him.
His eyes press shut, a tear streaking down each cheek. His hand perseveres and makes it to my waist, the lightest of touches.
“I love you,” I tell him again. “I don’t think there was ever a time I didn’t.”
His head shakes, chin down. I don’t care if he doesn’t believe it, if he knows in his heart there’s a but about to drop that will shatter everything again.
Because I’ll have all my minutes to show him.
So in the good moments, those fractions in time where he’s shatter-proof and believes he can actually be loved, he’ll have proof.
“I loved you when I left you at that round pen a week ago.” My thumb keeps brushing his wet cheek, the other the taut skin over his knuckles. “I loved you when you asked me for another drink, and I probably already did when you taught me to braid, who knows.”
His forehead drops to mine. I circle his hair behind his ear.
“I love how you eat every last grain of rice so there’s not one left on the plate.
And how you tuck your hand under your chin when you’re sleeping.
” God, so many other things. “And I love how you touch me, and how you kiss me. And how you fuck me, but that’s a given. Your dick is amazing.”
He laughs. And my purpose in life is to make him do it again. Every day. Next to him in bed or away on a different continent. Doesn’t matter, I’ll make it happen.
“I loved you every time I was pretending not to love you, and I’m so tired pretending.”
He nods, his nose brushing mine. Then his lips, just a touch.
I don’t kiss him. I wait. So it’s him this time.
So he knows he can. And that I’ll still be here when he triumphs.
And he does. His lips, pressing, taking. And it’s…
It’s…
Worth it.
Everything.
Better than the first. Better than all the others.
The pressure, the softness. The way his tongue melts into mine, the way his teeth scratch under my lower lip.
I let go of his hand so I can hold his neck instead, thread my fingers through his hair.
His arms clamp around me, lift me until I barely touch the ground.
And somehow, for all the force he’s putting into the embrace, it’s not tight.
Like they’re hungry but not desperate, taking what they need but in their own kitchen, their own home, not somewhere they have to scramble for scraps before being forced out the door.
And I get it. Baby, I get it.
But not yet.
“Wait—wait.” I pull away, grab his face with both hands just to manage. Then I will my eyes open, my breaths steady. “I had more to say.”
“Say it later,” he breathes out, eyes lidded, kissing me again.
Once, twice, through my grin. I pull away again. “No, I need it now.”
One more kiss, and he releases me halfway but not completely, arms loose but locked around my waist. And I know that’s how much distance I’m gonna get, but it’s perfectly enough. I’m not letting go of his neck either.
“I need you to listen, okay?” I tell him, nodding.
He nods too. “I don’t need you to be brave all the time.
I don’t want you to be perfect.” I really don’t.
Fuck perfection, in all its forms. “But I need you to be there. Here, with me. Even when things are shit at work and I’m spiraling.
I don’t need you to say anything if you feel you can’t, but don’t hide. You can just stay quiet next to me.”
The speech sounded way less needy in my head. Regardless, I had to say it. Not to hurt him—I hope I didn’t—but because it hurt so bad in the moment. I could never blame him for his fears but… I can’t ignore the things I know I need.
Not anymore. If I’m doing this, then I’m damn well doing it right.
Clean slate. Let’s go .
“Okay?” I ask, tracing his cheekbones.
He nods, gaze on my chin, not my eyes. “Didn’t want—” He pauses, bites his lip.
I wait, keep tracing, keep wiping new tears away.
He’s choosing his words, making sure they say what he means to say.
After a moment, he whispers, “If I said something and you ended up resenting me… I’d lose you for real. ”
Yeah, I thought it’d be something like that. I tell him, “I understand,” instead of assuring him that’d never happen, mostly because I can’t know for sure, but also because that’s in the past and not why I brought it up. Right now, when we should already be in his bed, making up for lost time.
Still, he tries to explain, “Didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“I know. I won’t bring it up again—just needed shit out in the open. So there’s nothing hanging over us when you do it.”
“Do what?”
I smile. “My back pocket.”
He frowns, takes a second. Then slides both hands down to my ass, correctly figures out I don’t mean my phone, and reaches into my other pocket, sliding the thing out and lifting it between us. “A pen?”
I nod. And the sight of him simply holding it is too much. My eyes water, my chin trembles. It was never supposed to have left me. I miss it. Like I missed him . So much.
So I lift my wrist, the left one. Press it against the pen.
And I beg.
“I want my heart back,” I whisper. “Give it back.”
Eli stares at the pen, then at my wrist, slowly understanding what I mean. His eyes fill up too, and his chin trembles. But then it shifts into a grin, into sunshine and a giddiness that I dream was there as I slept, the first time he did it.
He spins me around, my back to his chest, so he can hold me steady, do it properly.
I sink into him, enveloped by his strong arms like I always should have been, and let him work.
The pen clicks, his fingers tremble, but his other hand is solid, closing gently around my wrist, thumb brushing over the scar tissue as if the old ink left its own ridge and he’s feeling it out.
Then he does it. I don’t look, just close my eyes and feel it.
The first touch, the curve, the point down, then the other side. And without seeing it, I already know it’s perfect.
When he’s done, he gets rid of the pen and lifts my wrist to his lips for a kiss, then to my chest, where he brings my other hand too. And that’s where they stay, mine in his, as he kisses my hair and my neck.
And then whispers in my ear, “I love you too.”
Right there. Under the stars where nothing else matters. Words I didn’t need because he already told me, so many times in other ways. But words that make it real.
Words that make it final. Complete.
On brand. New concept.