I love it when he kisses me. I don’t mean when we kiss each other, because that’s totally different, although quite nice in its own right. I love it when he goes for the kiss, snaking one arm around my waist, cupping my cheek in his hand, and taking the kiss from me. And I give it to him willingly, gasping, sighing, groaning, and moaning, diluting his worries, and erasing any apology he might want to offer. No one else sees this side of him, the side that isn’t Ren’s boyfriend, but John, just himself, and his spirit. When he sits next to me at lunch, barely saying a word, barely moving at all, he’s like a statue. I grin at him, wrap my arms around him and snuggle into his chest. But he’s my statue, all mine. No one gets this part of him but me. And that’s why when I clam up, when he does something oh-so-good and I get quiet and bashful, he smiles. Because I’m not like that around anyone else. Because I become his statue, the way he is mine.