𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒. 𝙨𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙩

Immaculate

You were always the early riser. I would watch you dress as I burrowed further beneath your covers, your process meticulous. You'd always iron your shirt first, then hang it to cool while you fixed your hair.

"Why do you always do your hair before putting your shirt on?" I asked out of curiosity.

"So I don't get any of that wax gunk on my shirt."

I nodded. Makes sense.

"Have you always done it that way?"

"I think so," you replied. "Well, it's what Dylan and I were taught, after we landed ourselves in the bad books of the wardrobe department too many times."

"Fair enough." I laughed at that. "And did you always iron your own shirts?"

Your hand paused, mid-slick. "Yeah. Well, at least I did. Kind of had to learn, you know. When you're 12 and basically working a full-time job, there's a few things you're expected to know like an adult." You shrugged. "Ironing was just one of them."

And there it was - a reminder of just how differently we grew up. While acting for me was always a fantasy to chase, for you, it was a transaction, a means to get by. My heart twinged at the thought of you at age 12, brushing your blonde bangs out of your face as you tried to figure out how to flatten fabric creases all on your own. It struck me how much of this - this careful process of grooming, of getting dressed - came out of the need to look after yourself at such an early age.

I wanted to hug you tightly then and there, to tell you physically just how much I wanted to know you - all of you, beyond the whirlwind months of our courtship. I wanted childhood stories. I wanted all the wild anecdotes of your youth. I wanted chronicles of your college years.

But I saved up the instinct, careful in case you read it as pity, which I knew you always bristled at.

That afternoon, as you drove me home, I turned to you as the car slowed to a stop in front of a red light. Your fingers drummed against the steering wheel. Leaning over, I pressed a chaste kiss onto your hard, muscled shoulder.

Smiling, you asked, "What was that for?"

For the stories that I've missed.

And for all the stories we're about to write.

"For you," I said. "Just you, Cole."