He’s stern. He doesn’t hold me at night… Says his body temperature gets too warm at night to hold me, says our feet interlocking throughout the night should suffice. I’m not a feet person, but every time I rub mine against his, I still forget they’re not yours… They’re thinner, his feet. Not as pudgy as yours, nor as round… He holds me in between his chest and left arm, and gives me butterfly kisses as I lay there, eyes closed, smiling from how playful he’s learning I like to be. He likes to ask for backrubs, almost as often as you would ask if our nights in were enough for me… He’s delivering me from the shame and self-hatred our moments in bed cultivated inside me. He is assertive, he is loving, he is vibrant, he is curious, he is so present to the point that it makes me forget to think, to worry, to dreadfully prepare myself for the awkwardness that would follow after we did… He likes me, very much, he says. And I like him, quite enough that maybe I can be okay with holding a pillow at night as I fall asleep on the same side of the bed I would sleep when you and I were.