“David,” she whispered, and he stopped.

He did not lay with her here, not here, not between the cragged earth and the lean grasses. They kissed, unrehearsed, and it was a revelation.

He did not lay with her then, or the next day, but on the third day, and it was good. It was upon a proper bed, and watery sunlight pooled under the curtains. Her whispers covered him like a mist. She caressed his throat and wept, but he shook his head. No, he said. Not your fault.

They were delirious waves beneath the blankets. Here. And here. And here. His bruises, her wounds, forgotten, unheeded. The flesh didn’t matter, though it was the flesh they needed, but more: a pain subdued, the slippery balm of sweat soothing each other’s skin.

A proper bed, yes. Not here, churning beneath the scarred pines. They loved properly, in a proper bed.

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