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Would she want to see you depressed? Larry sat at the kitchen table, the blue glow from the vintage ceiling light casting shadows over his hunched figure. The weight of his past grief seemed to dissipate with each shared story or action, replaced by a warmth that spread through his chest. “Keep it together, Larry,” he muttered, a mantra against the rising tide of worry. Larry took her hand and let her guide him to her. “Alright, Larry. There was no rush in her actions, only the methodical push and pull, in and out, stretching him gently, readying him for more. Amidst the laughter and banter, the doorbell rang, expecting a food delivery, and Larry went to answer it. Cheyenne tasted like promise—a heady mix of courage and curiosity—and he drank her in, every brush and press of her mouth against his a testament to her boldness. Cheyenne pulled his hand away and took over for him. His mind raced, scrambling for harmless topics, anything that could bridge the gap without betraying the truth of what Cheyenne meant to him.