He got into the same bed as me, like he did four years ago. He knew I’d been scared. He knew I was scared – so he let me take it slow. We leaned on each other and chatted. We both knew where it was going. It didn’t have to go there unless we wanted it to. He made me feel safe.
The fear I had had at sixteen was gone. I hadn’t known what I was. I hadn’t known what I wanted. But he made me feel safe.
Now, him on my shoulder, body next to mine, we spoke a silent language together, mind connected to mind. We talked it through, through and through, and lay the boundaries I still couldn’t cross. And we breathed and we talked and I was still a little shy, so I can’t say I looked him in the eye. But he made me feel safe.
We did the things I’d dreamt of – heart racing, breath hitching. Was it minutes? Was it seconds? Did it matter? No. He asked if he could go further, but he was okay that I said no. He was okay to take it slow. He made me feel safe.
I turned 21. He made me feel safe.