23. This is Love, Too
(Josh)
O ur little rental house in Virginia Highlands smells like garlic and rosemary.
Starting the roast a little after three, the whole place fills with the aroma.
Kevin’s stretched out on the sofa with the Sunday paper, but he’s not reading it.
A page turns every few minutes, but it’s easy to see his mind is somewhere else.
Still—he’s here. Not at the gym, not buried in class notes or prepping for the week. Just here, with me. We’re enjoying the weather, a quiet house, and a peaceful Sunday. For now, that’s enough. But even in this, there’s a slight distance—he’s here, but not all the way.
It’s unseasonably cool today—a rare gift after weeks of heat.
I’ve opened the windows, and the fans hum in each room, pulling in just enough breeze to make it feel like summer’s finally given up.
Kevin changed into cut-off sweatpants and a loose tank that slips off one shoulder.
He’s barefoot, his legs tan and stretched long over the armrest. I can’t help but stare as I set the table.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” I call out.
“Are you sure you don’t want help in there?” he answers from the couch .
We usually trade off—one cooks, the other cleans—but I don’t need help today.
He should relax, which he rarely does. I want him to know I’m here for him, that this kind of ease—the smell of roast chicken, the breeze through the curtains, me in the kitchen while he stretches out—is part of what makes us work. This is love, too—the quiet kind.
He folds the paper and sets it on the coffee table like he’s been waiting for the excuse to stop pretending. He stands and stretches, then pads into the kitchen.
“Smells delicious,” Kevin says, stretching again before taking his seat on one side of the small dinette table under the window in the kitchen.
It overlooks the backyard, with its lush green grass and blooming hydrangeas, irises, daylilies, and butterfly bushes along the fence.
This afternoon is especially nice with the windows open, the breeze gently swaying the lacy curtains next to the table that came with the house—it carries in a summery scent as if the whole yard is trying to join us for dinner.
As we eat, no television or music plays, just the quiet sounds of birds singing, trees swaying, and our conversation.
It’s Sunday—a time for us. We’re having garlic mashed potatoes with almond green beans, fresh from the market and made from scratch, to accompany the roast. Kevin murmurs a quiet thanks after the first bite.
He doesn’t say much more, but he’s more here now than he’s been all week.
Throughout the meal, two hummingbirds dart and dash around the feeder that hangs outside the window.
They compete with one another, as territorial as hummingbirds tend to be, both wanting the same thing.
We usually see them from dawn until dusk throughout the day, working so hard for the same thing, as if the sweet nectar means life and death to them both.
Kevin is always amazed at their skills and determination.
I wish they wouldn’t fight each other, but they both seem to believe it’s their territory they are protecting .
I tell him a story about one of my patients—an older man who insists on calling his walker a Corvette and flirts with all the nurses. Kevin finally laughs a real laugh, not the polite kind.
“I like it when you tell me about your work,” he says.
“I like it when you tell me things, too.”
He nods and doesn’t look away. “I know.”
The rest of the dinner passes in that quiet, rhythmic pace.
Kevin clears the dishes without me asking, and I let him.
It feels like something small and shared.
It keeps him in the present, here with me on a lazy Sunday afternoon, without any of the distractions of the outside world, and I’ll take that.
“Hey, let’s take a little walk to the shops. Maybe stop for an ice cream,” I suggest when we finish in the kitchen. This afternoon is worth holding on to.
“Sure,” Kevin agrees, “I’ll put something decent on.”
It’s times like these when I wish we had a dog to walk with us.
Kevin and I have both had dogs at different times in our lives, but not since we’ve been together.
It’s been too hectic—finishing school, relocating, and finding jobs here.
It wasn’t possible living in our Midtown high-rise, but now that we’re here in a house with room and a yard, we’ll get one soon.
We just moved in, after all, and are still getting settled. I can be patient.
Home from our stroll and ice cream, we both sink into the sofa. When Kevin’s head finds my lap, I run my fingers through his buzzed hair, slow and gentle, as his eyes begin to close.
“Feels so good,” he whispers, speaking slowly as if he’s half-asleep already. “I’m tired,” he murmurs.
“Then don’t move. ”
We stay like that past dusk after the hummingbirds stop jousting and fly back to their nests.
~
The sheets are cool when we climb into bed, the kind of sun-dried crispness that melts almost instantly beneath shared body heat.
Kevin clicks off the lamp, and darkness folds over the bedroom like a soft blanket.
A faint breeze from the open window stirs the curtains, letting in the sounds of distant cicadas blending with the slow churn of the ceiling fan above us.
I turn toward him, and for a second, we breathe in silence. The house is quiet, with only the settling creaks of an old floorboard and the gentle hum of summer night air.
“Do you want me to run us a bath?” I ask quietly, reaching for his hand. “We could soak and relax.”
Kevin’s fingers squeeze mine, and he smiles, but it’s faint in the dark. “That sounds nice,” he says, brushing his thumb over my knuckles. “But we’re already in bed, and I think I’d fall asleep in there.”
“Another time then.”
He brings my hand up to his lips and kisses it—just a brief, warm press—and rolls onto his side to face me.
His hand finds my chest first, fingers spreading gently over my sternum like he’s checking to see if I’m real. Then he touches my face, a featherlight graze across my cheek, before leaning in to kiss me. The kiss is slow and intentional. It’s not hungry. It’s not rushed. It’s careful. Present.
My hands move to his back, smooth and warm under my palms, then down to the curve of his waist. He exhales softly, the sound catching between us, and I feel the tension start to leave his body.
When he climbs over me, knees bracketing my hips, I welcome the weight, the closeness.
I want to be wanted. I want him to feel wanted.
He kisses my neck and chest. We still don’t speak. It’s not silent, though—not with the sound of his breath, the shift of skin on cotton sheets, the low thrum of the fan mixing with the occasional rustle of night sounds outside.
Kevin’s body feels familiar and new all at once—like a song I forgot I loved until the melody starts playing again.
My hands trace his back, grounding myself in him.
When I whisper his name, he looks into my eyes.
They shimmer in the faint moonlight streaming through the window.
There’s something raw in them, a glassiness or need.
Then he kisses me again, deeper this time. A kiss that feels urgent.
The rhythm changes—more urgency, more need.
Kevin’s grip tightens, and I feel his breath warm against my skin with a kind of desperation that catches me off guard.
His stubble burns lightly along my collarbone as he moves lower.
I feel the warmth of his breath, the press of his lips, his hands skimming down my ribs, then digging into my thighs.
My fingers trace the taut curve of his shoulder blades and the slick heat of his lower back, marveling at how alive he feels—like a live wire drawn tight and finally allowed to spark.
His hips press against mine, and we move together, clumsy at first, then caught in the rhythm.
Kevin’s skin is hot and flushed, and his breath is ragged and fast.
I’m overwhelmed. Not just by surprise and sensation, but by Kevin’s want and passion—the way he moves, like he needs this to mean something. It’s like he’s pouring himself into me to keep from falling apart, and I’m the only place left where he feels whole.
We move together, as if we’ve done this a hundred times, yet we’re relearning it all at once.
He’s more intense than usual—not just present, but ravenous in the way he touches me, the way he grips my hips, the way he drives into every motion like it’s the only way he can say something he doesn’t have words for.
I open myself to Kevin and let him take whatever he needs, and for a while, stop wondering what he’s not saying.
His breath mixes with mine until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Whatever this is, whatever brought it on, I want it.
I want to be what he turns to when everything else feels too much.
He shifts closer, the movement seamless, as if it were instinct, like something raw and primitive.
He holds my legs as we move together, the rhythm building between us.
The moonlight slicing through the window catches Kevin’s eyes, casting silver across his cheekbones and collarbone.
His jaw tightens, eyes locked on mine—he looks wild and heartbreakingly powerful, like someone chasing something he doesn’t understand yet doesn’t want to lose again.
His breath stutters with each push, each motion, like he’s trying to drive some truth deeper than words ever could.
I grip his forearms as his motion grows intense, until everything gives way to something quiet and spent, like surrender.
He eases back into my arms with a quiet gasp, breath shaky, chest heaving as we fall into stillness. I wrap an arm around him and pull him tight against me, as if it were possible to be any closer, any more complete, any more in love.
His head comes to rest on my chest, skin flushed and damp. My fingers drift through the buzzed hair at the nape of his neck, slow, grounding strokes.
“You okay?” I ask, just above a whisper.
He nods, lips brushing against my chest. “Yeah.”
And for tonight, I believe him.
His hand settles on my stomach, tracing slow, absent-minded circles. His breathing begins to even out .
But I’m still awake.
The fan casts slow-moving shadows across the plaster as the heat cools between us.
The silence settles in again, and I wonder about the way he moved tonight—about the edge in it—the hunger that didn’t quite match the gentleness we usually share.
It felt like something being released—like he had held his breath for days and finally let it out all at once.
I’m not unhappy. Not at all. If anything, it felt like I reached Kevin—like I gave him something he needed. But still, part of me wonders. Part of me says it didn’t feel like Kevin. Not the way I know him. Not entirely.
As his body falls into relaxation, the sounds of the distant cicadas return to our bedroom, lulling him to sleep. He stirs slightly, then settles again.
It wasn’t soft—not in the usual way. But maybe this is love, too, the kind that rushes in when words won’t come. Whatever truths he hasn’t told, I have this moment, this closeness, and I hold onto it like it’s enough.