The First Moonlit Night
It was the early hours of a Friday in November, the kind of night where the air felt heavy with anticipation. I had been staying at his place, and around one in the morning, my phone buzzed. I slipped away to the bathroom, whispering into the receiver as my mother told me the joyful news: I was officially an uncle. The excitement of the new arrival warmed my chest, but as I stepped back into the bedroom, my heart skipped for a different reason.
He was awake, lying beneath crisp white sheets, his silhouette framed by the pale, ethereal glow of the moon filtering through the window. I stood there for a moment, paralyzed by how beautiful he looked in the dim light. When he asked who had called, I told him the news with a smile, but I couldn’t stop staring. “Come back to bed, silly,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down my spine.
As I slid back into the warmth of the blankets, he pulled me close, his breath warm against my neck. The world outside vanished, leaving only the sound of our synchronized breathing and the soft, silver light of the moon witnessing a love that felt timeless.