He came by to pick up his blanket.

That blanket had been sitting in my house for days folded, waiting, holding a quiet kind of energy I couldn’t ignore. It was almost like he’d left it there on purpose, a breadcrumb between his world and mine. Something to guarantee he’d have a reason to see me again.

While he was gone, I’d sent him a few stories the kind that made his mind wander and his body remember. Every word I wrote had a pulse. He told me he’d read them late at night, that my words made him blush in the dark. I liked knowing that.

By the time he came back, the air between us was charged. I stood outside wearing a black hoodie, my curls spilling out in soft rings, my lips painted a deep red that caught the wind and trembled with it. The blanket was clutched in my hands like a secret.

When he pulled up, there was no hesitation. He stepped out of his car like a man who already knew what he wanted to feel.

No small talk, no space between us just his hands, warm and steady, his kiss catching me off guard but feeling exactly right.

It wasn’t just passion; it was recognition. That moment where energy meets memory. Where everything you’ve been pretending not to want shows up right in front of you and dares you to admit it.

Then, just like that, he pulled away reaching into his car and handed me a small yellow hat.

Bahamas, it said in bright letters. A piece of where he’d been, a reminder of the little things he does for me.

And as he drove off, I walked to my building, smiling to myself, realizing that sometimes the smallest things like a blanket, a few late-night words can pull two people right back into the heat of what they never finished.