Valentine's Day - Nia

You pop a popcorn kernel in your mouth. It’s coated with butter. Nia is not usually the one for unhealthy fats but she would need to be force fed plain popcorn.

You run your fingers through her thick curls. You’re fascinated by how they fit around your finger. The screen distracts you from your task when someone starts viciously shooting.

“Did I already say this is a very romantic choice for a movie?” you ask.

“Five times, Birdie,” she replies.

“I just want to reiterate that you’re crazy,” you respond.

“I’m not sitting through Meg Ryan ugly crying for that ugly man,” Nia explains.

“You know there’s more romantic movies than Meg Ryan movies, right?”

She moves her head to eye you, “and you want to watch them?”

You snort. “You would totally love me less if I said yes.”

She nods and looks back at the screen. “This movie has a romance plot anyway.”

“Spoiler.”

“I’ll reimburse you,” she says.

“I was wondering when you would start buying my affection,” you joke.

She scoffs, “you’re so pussy-whipped by me I could spit on you, throw you out and you’d look at me like sunlight comes out of my ass.”

You mockingly put a hand to your heart, “you know just what to say, my Romeo.”

She takes your hand and puts it back on her hair. You begin your caresses anew. You try to pay attention to the movie but she’s so beautiful. Sometimes you have to remind yourself she’s all for you.

“I couldn’t you know,” she says suddenly.

You’re absentmindedly humming while stroking her hair. “What?”

“Love you less,” she says simply. Your breath hikes. She continues watching the screen as if she merely told you a basic fact. Perhaps it is to her.

“Really? There’s nothing I could ever do to make that happen?” you ask, not knowing why you want to push this.

She looks at you. “If you planted a bomb somewhere in a terrorist attack I would punch you.”

She looks away, “although I would visit you in prison.”

You laugh. “I think that’s the most lovey-dovey you’ve ever been. What’s gotten into you?” You lay your palm to her forehead. “Are you sick?”

“I’m sure they say love is a disease,” she says.

“No cure?”

“Unfortunately. I think it’s terminal. Symptoms include mild stupidity, sweaty palms, nausea and brain fog,” she sarcasms with a neutral tone.

You poke her cheek. You feel her smile form. “And when did you get afflicted with this terminal disease?”

She rolls her eyes and rolls back to the movie. You grumble and in protest you refuse to play with her hair. She tries to grab your hand but you move it further away.

“I’m not going to give you a love confession,” she claims.

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” you protest.

She sighs deeply. “This day isn’t any more important than other days. I could tell you I love you at any point in the year.”

“But you don’t,” you point out.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” she sits up and turns to face you. Her face is inches from yours. “We were never friends.”

Your eyebrows raise, “yes we were.”

She puts a hand to your cheek. Her palm feels soft and you smell roses. “Neither of us ever acted like it.”

The soft silence that follows settles around you, the screen's flickering light the only thing breaking the stillness. You can feel her breath close to your face. It’s warm and a little ragged, as if what she said has caused a stir beneath her usually calm interior. Your heart picks up pace.

“I don’t know when it started, Birdie,” she admits. Her thumb brushes the corner of your mouth lightly, sending an electric shock through your body.

“I can’t give you that,” she continues. “It happened without me knowing it.”

She smiles, a flicker of something... maybe amusement, maybe something else dances behind her eyes. “You snuck up on me.”

“Like a virus,” you joke, your voice slightly quieter, more self-conscious.

“I don’t do cliches,” she adds.

“I don’t do cliches either,” you say, but your voice seems a bit higher, betraying you. “You know that.”

“Hmmm,” she says, her thumb sliding along your jaw.

Her touch is deliberately slow. Just enough to make your mouth to feel dry. You can feel the heat of her skin against yours, the way her fingers graze your jaw as if she’s memorizing the shape of you.

It’s a small, intimate gesture, but it feels like it’s her way of conveying what she can’t with words. So appropriate and right for her.

“Hmmm?” you repeat, voice a little strained as you try to regain your composure.

She tilts her head, her eyes locking with yours in a way that makes the world outside of this moment seem distant and unimportant.

“You're not as good at hiding things as you think,” she murmurs, her voice teasing. It’s a statement, but it’s not an accusation. It’s more like an observation, like she knows you in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.

Your pulse quickens. “I don’t hide anything,” you say, but it sounds more defensive than you intend.

Her thumb continues its path along your jaw, sending little tremors through your stomach.

“Really?” she asks, her lips curving into that faint smile that always makes you lose track of all but her. "Because you look like you're hiding the fact that you’re way too into this."

You blink, caught off guard. There's something about the way she says it, so casual but the weight of her words makes your chest tighten.

“I’m not-” you begin, but you stop yourself. You know it’s useless. She’s too sharp, too perceptive.

Her smile deepens.

“You don't have to pretend, you know. It's just us here.”

You let out a slow breath, forcing your gaze to shift away, if only for a moment. “You always make it so hard to keep my composure,” you say, you follow it with a nervous kind of laugh.

She leans in just a little closer, and you think she’s going to kiss you put she moves to your left. Her lips brushing against the shell of your ear.

“Maybe that's the point,”she whispers, her voice an invitation, or better yet a challenge.

"Yeah?" you ask. "And what’s the point, Nia?"

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, her thumb strokes your skin once more sending a shiver down your spine.

“Maybe the point is to make you feel everything,” she finally says. Her tone is soft, almost too soft. “To make us not run from it.”

You’re not sure if she’s talking about this moment or about something bigger. Something deeper, between the two of you. Maybe it’s about all the times you’ve both have run from it?

Either way, you know she’s right. There’s no running from this. You’re already in too deep, and you don’t think you ever want to find a way out.