What stays with me is the riot of lines right next to his eye when he’s laughing. I fit against him in a way that I can’t always achieve - and certainly not when we’re upright - and it’s only myopic focus that makes me hone in on details like that. I can’t see any further. Everything else blends into blur and softness beyond a certain radius. But this close, with my nose pressed against his jaw, the vibration of laughter ringing against the palm of my hand, those are the creases I can see.
"Smug," I accuse him, blunt teeth finding the apple of his cheek. He retaliates in the broad span of his hands against my ribcage, spreading and relaxing like some fauna taking in the atmosphere. His eyes close, and he hums in a mysterious sing-song combination of agreement and denial.