#cd19

there’s this way he always looks at you when you’re about to go, suitcase half-zipped on the bed, your jacket thrown over the chair. like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth in this light, the way your eyes flick back at him even when you’re trying to be brisk and efficient about packing. the two of you aren’t that old as a couple—three months, just over—still feeling out the borders, but every time you end up tangled together on his couch or pressed up against the brick wall behind the bar after drinks, it gets harder to stop, to keep it chaste, to keep your hands from learning every secret.

you met him at a dive, of all places, your friends razzing you for ogling the “pretty hockey boy” at the pinball machine, and you’d ignored it at first until he smiled at you, half-shy, all those quiet nerves bundled into a five-foot-ten body that looked like it had been poured into jeans and an old thrifted tee.

the first date had been coffee, second was a game where he didn’t let go of your hand the whole walk home, third was that party where you’d ended up sitting in his lap because there were no other seats, both pretending it was the only available option.

the sex stuff came slow, not because either of you were scared but because it felt too good to ruin by rushing. you’d made out for hours, hands tangled in hair and sliding under shirts, hips moving in slow circles while you both panted into each other’s mouths. you’d slept in his bed, curled up and clothed, your leg draped over his, his breath soft at the back of your neck, his hand splayed warm and safe against your belly.

now, with you about to leave town for two weeks—just two weeks, but it feels like longer—he’s restless, following you around his little apartment, helping you double-check your charger, slipping your book into your bag. when you look up at him from the zipper, he’s standing by the bed, mouth twisted, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

you say, “gonna miss me?” and he just looks at you, a little pink blooming on his cheeks, tongue caught between his teeth. then he comes over, sits on the edge of the mattress, pats the space between his knees until you come stand there, half-awkward, half-smiling, heart hammering in your chest.

he runs his hands up your thighs, over the denim of your jeans, then hooks his thumbs into the waistband. “sit down,” he says, voice barely above a whisper, and when you do—knees spread so you’re straddling his lap—he kisses you slow, hands skimming your waist, his lips softer than usual, patient.

“two weeks is a long time,” he murmurs, mouth at your ear, his breath warm and shaky. “what if you forget what i taste like?”

you can’t help but smile, this drowsy ache blooming up through your chest, because you know he’s not really teasing—he’s honestly worried you’ll leave and not come back, like you’re something wild he’s caught by accident and he’s scared to open his hand. you tip your forehead into his, tangle your fingers together where they’re curled in the folds of your jeans, feel him exhale all quiet against your cheek. for a minute you both just sit there, close, swaying a little, not kissing yet but so close it’s easy to imagine it—his lips parting, that little shiver that runs through him every time you touch the soft skin at the nape of his neck, the way his lashes flutter down when you murmur his name.

his eyes are so stupidly green up close, a little nervous now, like he’s waiting for you to tease him or call his bluff, but you’re just watching him, your hands sliding up to his shoulders. you feel the muscle tense under your palms, the faint tremble in his biceps, the way he’s breathing a little quicker even though you haven’t done anything except let your knees fall open on either side of his.

“gonna miss you,” he says, and it sounds almost embarrassed, his voice quieter than the hum of the street outside. he’s not one for speeches, never has been—the night you told him you wanted to be with him, he’d just smiled so hard it looked like his face might break, kissed you so softly you felt it in your chest for days. everything about connor is a little hesitant, as if he’s still surprised you want him, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind.

your mouth finds the side of his jaw, soft and slow, and you feel him shiver all the way down his spine. his hand comes up, threading into your hair, the pads of his fingers pressing just enough to let you know how much he wants you close. it would be so easy to fall into that old pattern—mouths, hands, hips, the dizzy warmth that builds until you’re both gasping—but he pulls back a little, thumb stroking at your cheekbone, gaze flicking between your eyes and your mouth.

“i want you so bad,” he admits, eyes searching yours, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. “but i wanna wait. not just ‘cause you’re leaving, but… it’s gotta be, i dunno. more.” he laughs a little, self-conscious, and you realize how serious he is, how much it matters to him. “like, if we do this now, i’ll just wanna do it again, and again, and then you’ll miss your train, and…” he trails off, grinning, shaking his head. “i just want the first time to be perfect. want you to remember it for a good reason. not ‘cause we were rushed.”

he kisses you again, softer this time, lips barely brushing yours, and there’s a kind of promise in it, a slow burn that settles between your ribs. you try to chase it, to deepen the kiss, but he only smiles, hands still gentle on your face, and he murmurs, “don’t tempt me.”

it’s not just restraint—it’s admiration. like he’s cataloguing every piece of you, trying to memorize the way your breath hitches when he touches the back of your neck, the exact shape of your knees bracketing his hips, the sound you make when his tongue flicks at the corner of your mouth. he wants you, that much is clear in the way he holds you, the way his hips shift just slightly, but he’s stubborn—won’t let it tip over into more, not yet.

instead he pulls you in so you’re pressed chest to chest, wraps his arms around you and just holds you there, his nose nuzzled into your hair, breath steadying as he rocks you gently, almost like he’s trying to commit the weight of you to memory. you close your eyes, hands curled in the fabric of his shirt, and let yourself sink into him.

the two of you talk about nothing for a while—your travel plans, a dumb inside joke from your first date, the way his teammates keep bugging him to bring you to another game, how his mom sent him a care package full of socks and homemade jam. you tell him you’re scared you’ll forget the exact way he smells, and he laughs, ducking his head so his hair falls into his eyes, then tells you that’s ridiculous, you could find him blindfolded in a crowd.

when it’s time to go, he walks you out, still holding your hand, fingers laced tight. at the curb, he pulls you into his chest again, resting his chin on your head, rocking you back and forth a little. “i’ll be here when you get back,” he says, voice so quiet you almost miss it. “promise. and then—” he squeezes you, lets the rest hang in the air.