“You’re like–” I paused, taking a second to catch my breath. “Warm tea on a winter’s night. Like honey glaze on homemade butter biscuits. Like the stillness after the storm that lets everyone affected know things are okay now that you’re here.” “Like ointment one slathers over their burned, bruised, or bitten skin. Like a love song. The kind they recorded in the eighties and nineties. Like a fresh face after a day in the brutal sun. Like lavender buds in cold water. Like light. Like warmth. Like comfort.”
