He opened the door and I didn't say hello.
My mouth found his before the door finished swinging and my hands were in his hair and his arms were around my waist and we were stumbling backward into the apartment that smelled like him – coffee and soap and the faint staleness of a space that had been occupied by grief for two weeks. The door slammed shut behind us. My bag hit the floor. His hands found my face, my jaw, my neck, pulling me closer like the forty minutes of highway between us had been forty years and he was catching up on every second.
"I missed you." Against his mouth. Between breaths. Not planned. Just true.
He didn't say it back. He showed me.
His hands gripped the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head in one motion. My bra followed – unhooked with both hands, peeled
