His hands, large enough to shatter,
chose instead to hold.

Not just my neck,
but the quiet part of me
that rarely feels met.

He pressed his palm
to my chest,
not to restrain
but to feel the wild ache beneath it.

He could’ve rushed.
But he waited.

Could’ve overpowered.
But he steadied.

Could’ve left like the rest.
And he did.
But not before showing me
what it feels like
when strength kneels before softness
not as pity,
but as reverence.

We shared a moment
that didn’t ask to be named.
It passed
as all rare things do.