He’s quiet like velvet curtains, heavy with night, closing out the noise of the world. His hands say stay without ever asking. He is slow-burning whiskey, warmth that climbs from the chest to the mouth. The other is all pulse and teeth — a spark on bare skin, the kind of heat that makes you forget your name and remember your body. He’s the taste of running just to feel your blood again. And I’m right in the doorway, dress slipping off one shoulder, caught between flame and ember. If I have to choose — I’ll choose the one who stays when the lights go out. The one who knows my silence is not absence, but invitation. If I have to choose — I choose the one who stays. No fireworks, no thunder — just the soft collision of two breaths finding rhythm. A warmth that doesn’t ask for proof. A tenderness fierce enough to be real. Maybe love is the moment you stop performing and start inhabiting your skin. If I have to choose — I’ll choose the one who stays when the lights go out. The one who touches the quiet in me like a secret he already knows. If I have to choose — I choose the one who stays. Stay. Don’t speak. Just stay.
