The last time we shared a bed, we’d had sex, but this was a different type of intimacy. Gentler, less tangible but no less important, and rooted in fragile, blossoming trust. Asher tore his eyes away from mine and faced forward again. But when our hands grazed on the bed, I didn’t pull away, and when I curled my pinky around his, he squeezed mine in return. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. Sometimes, actions were enough.
