In your sleeping-embrace, I rolled over, onto my back, and turned to face you. In the creeping morning light, in a room of the house that you grew up in (but not your room, you outgrew that bed shortly after I met you), I reached across and held one side of your bearded face.
“Grant,” I half-whispered.
You opened your eyes and shut them again. With one arm you pulled me in, dragging me from my spot on the bed, squeezing me next to you. You kissed my cheek.
This is my favorite memory of you. This was the first of the countdown, when we had one month left, before we ever confessed. This was the first time that I was sure, even if only for the day.