The Socks

She was cold.

It didn’t make sense her feet were bare.

It was winter.

Flu season where the air even felt sick

And somehow that still didn’t sit right with him, because but he knew better.

If she fell ill, it would sit on his chest too.

Yeah, she was cute with her little tantrums,

but the ill version of her?

That was something he dreaded.

Maybe because he cared a little too much more than he should. Or ready to admit. 

He could’ve let her freeze.

Honestly, he should’ve.

But what would that make him?

He was still human after all.

Soft in the places he pretended weren’t there.

He told her to sit.

Then bent down.

Gently took one foot into his hands

so small, so fragile against his.

He looked at her toes, one after the other,

like he was studying something delicate,

something that could break if he rushed.

Then slowly,

he slid his worn socks onto her feet.

Left first.

Then right.

It was nothing,

and yet everything.

Simple.

Soft.

Intentional.

That was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her.

And that night, she slept warm

not just because of the socks,

but because of the care,

the thought,

the quiet way he chose her comfort.

The next day,

he got her a pack of M&S socks

so she wouldn’t walk around barefoot again

looking like a heathen.

And somewhere between

those quiet gestures

and the ordinary kindness of it all,

she fell in love.

And him?

He still didn’t know if he was a lover boy

or just a fuck boy doing lover boy things.

Or Maybe just a man caught between instinct

and intention.

Then…

I saw all of that from my own perspective

and said, yeah, he’s the one.

Looking back now,

it’s funny how a man who knew how to love that gently still ended up being nothing more

than a boy playing at love.