It started in words.

Not in touch,
       stolen glances,
       but in lines of text

       that pulled tight like thread,
       sewn into something neither of us meant to make.

Before we met,
       we already knew.

Before we spoke,
       the conversation had long begun.

Two lives,
    two paths that never should have crossed,
    but somehow…
                impossibly…
                           did.

A meeting.

Then another.

Each visit turning distance
     into a cruel joke,
     each parting proof—

     that space is not the same as absence.

We’ve learned patience
     where we had none,

     restraint where we only knew hunger.

But the story isn’t just heat—
    it’s in the embers, too.

In the moments between.

In the way we linger even when we’re apart.

Now, the question
     is no longer what this is—

     but what it can be.

Not just fire,
   but warmth.

Not just urgency,
        but ease.

The story isn’t finished.

The pages turn themselves now,
    one by one;

    leading us forward,
    leading us closer,
    leading us toward something

    we don’t need to name—
                          only to live.