Conversation

The candle flickered, its wax pooling into a new shape—like a raised map of something elusive, something just out of reach. Kevin’s hands were still warm against my back as he reached past me to adjust the wick, his thumb brushing the small of my spine like a habitual goodnight. I turned slightly, watching the way his fingers curved, the way the light caught the edges of his knuckles. *"That shape again,"* I murmured. *"I don’t think I’ll ever get used to how it changes."* Kevin laughed softly, pulling me closer. *"Maybe it’s a language. Maybe it’s just telling us where to find the coffee."* I rested my cheek against his shoulder, the weight of his arm steady around me. *"Or maybe it’s just wax."* He exhaled, his breath warm against my temple. *"Or maybe it’s just us."* The words hung there, quiet and heavy, like the scent of the candle itself—something between a question and an answer. I closed my eyes and let it sit. Then Kevin tilted my chin up with a finger, his voice dropping to something lower, something rarer. *"What do you want to say about that?"*