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I couldn’t feel my knees.

I could feel everything else, though. All of it. Every molecule in the universe suddenly at a standstill.

“Stewart,” I whispered.

“Yes,” he whispered back, still lying there.

Grey hair against my darker frizz. His fingertip tracing the line of hair towards my navel, the damp heat of his palm warm against my stomach.

“Did…we just…?”

“God, I hope we did. It wasn’t a dream then?”

“A dream?” I laughed as he slowly got to his feet.

I hadn’t realised he’d been half on the floor. What were we like?

“I’m not sure my knees are up for blow jobs.”

He climbed onto the bed, laid himself down next to me. My trousers were still around my ankles, and I was still wearing my socks.

“We need to figure out this clothes thing,” he said. “It’s very complicated.”

“Agree.” I giggled again, like a child, my arms snaking around him, getting him comfortable against my chest, his hands still roaming my skin.

I liked it. I liked it so much.

“I love you, Dylan. You don’t have to say it back. I just want you to know how special you are. Every day, a little bit more.”

“I know,” I said, hugging him a little tighter. “And for the record?”

“Yes?”

I kissed him. Held him. Moved until we were chest to chest, tangled up in some kind of impossible twist.

One. Him and me.

“We’ve got this,” I said, with sudden conviction. “We’ve got this, and it will be really good. Whatever the future holds, we’ve got this.”

“Absolutely.”

“And I love you too.”

“Good.”

I didn’t need to say more because he smiled, and my heart was beating, calm and steady, my breath still a little hitched.

I needed to get fitter. Maybe start running again.

“Do you play tennis?” I asked.

“After sex?”

He made me happy. What a weird feeling that was.

“Blow jobs are good.”

“Yup.”