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Little drummer boy

He smells like rain and wet grass and Sunday afternoons. He’s warm, so much warmer than he has any right to be. She closes her eyes, leans against his chest and just breaths.

Heartbeats frolic under their skins, the rhythm rapid and erratic like the footfalls of playful children.

His heart beats.

                Hers.

His.

      Hers.

Theirs.

Her breath catches.

She isn’t sure whether her heart sped up to meet his or his slowed down to join hers, but they’re suddenly, horribly in sync, and for that echoing space, that hollow moment between the contractions of muscles, she’s afraid they’ve somehow become accidentally, inextricably linked. And what does that mean? What does an attachment like that entail? What if what they've done has changed everything - changed her, changed him, changed them? Can they ever be what they were before? What if...

Her heart beats.

     His.

Hers.

             His.

And they’re two separate people again.

She lets out the breath she was holding in one long sigh and has no idea whether she means it for resignation or relief.

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