On our last night before the start of our forever, Clint made love to me from behind, my hands braced on the windowpane, our eyes locked in its reflection. After, I’d turned into his chest, dragging a medicinal kiss over his bullet wounds. A souvenir from our time at war. “I relived that night every day for so long,” I’d said with strain. “Good came from it. Remember that. Hold on to it.” “I’ll never let it go,” I’d given my solemn oath, arching into his following affection.
