Because he wasn’t saying it like someone who wanted s*x. He was saying it like someone who had been sick without me. Like someone who had been crawling through hell and finally saw a glimpse of heaven and realized it still looked like me.
And I swear, my brain just started screaming.
He missed me. He missed ME. Me. Not just my body. Not just the s*x. He missed the way I make stupid jokes at 2am. He missed my overthinking. My panic attacks. My drama. My chaotic monologues. My too-loud moans. My annoying neediness. All of it. He missed it all. He WANTED it all.
And I couldn’t take it.
I turned around so fast the water splashed, and I threw myself into his chest like I was trying to climb back inside him.
“Say it again,” I begged, voice breaking as I clutched his neck. “Say you missed me
