The Love is Different

"No," I smile softly, "I don't love you the same way I did at the beginning of high school. You wouldn't want me to either."

"I liked the way you loved me 3 years ago," he grumbles, arms crossed over his chest.

"Stop that," I say, "Although you're currently acting like him, you are not the same boy you were freshman year Nik. It'd be stupid to love you the same way."

Sighing gently, I slip out of my chair and slip my arms around his neck, straddling him so that he's forced to uncross his arms. With his hands resting on the curve of my waist, he sneaks a quick kiss along my jawline.

"That's much better," he murmurs contently.

"Today, you are so much braver and kinder and selfless than I ever could've imagined. I love you more because well, you are more."

"Don't forget sexy."

"Of course not," I murmur against his lips, rolling my hips over his for one excruciatingly long moment. "How could I ever forget that?"

He kisses me then, softly and sweetly, like he has all the time in the world and damn anyone who thinks he should spend it otherwise. It's graduation day and every touch still sends herds of butterflies doing backflips in my lower belly.

Finally, he pulls back despite my quiet protestations. "Now who's acting like a child," he teases.

I narrow my eyes. "You would too if someone kissed you like that and then stopped." He shakes his head in amusement because damn straight, he would've pouted and probably done worse.

His eyes go fuzzy for a moment and I start to untangle my legs from his back in concern but he snaps out of it and hauls me right back to where I was. I laugh but still search his eyes worriedly. "What's going on in that head of yours?"

"You're a part of me," he says simply, "the best part of actually."

I suck in a quiet breath and he smiles sheepishly, almost shyly actually. I can feel tears lodge in the back of my throat. After so many years, he still gets shy around me. It's only fair. After all, he still has the same effect on me.

"That's how I love you differently," he unwinds one of my arms from his neck and presses our fingertips together, "I know every part of you better than I know myself. I need your heartbeat as much as I need mine." He shrugs as if he'd just told me the weather and for a moment, I struggle to find the right words to say.

"Kiss me before we both have to get up on that stage," I say softly, settling for an older method of communication much more reliable than the english language.

"Yes ma'am," he says with a touch of the Southern drawl he doesn't let anyone else hear. And that was that because when his lips are on mine, words don't matter. Nothing does.