You don’t believe in love anymore.

But some late night drives, when you glimpse at him between red lights, catch his eye and your hand snuggled into his, you're compelled to.

There's something about him that invites you in. And on days when your subconscious would remind you of the silliness of love, you stand rigid at the doorway, hand gripping the frame but refusing to cross. He holds the door open and the gesture makes your mind reel because was this a lure? You think you recognize the bait, same product different brand, different hand, and you grip the door frame a little tighter.

Other days, when your heart wins, you shuffle through the doorway and into his embrace with a thread of hope in you. You knot your arms around him and cradle his torso, and standing there, breathing his warmth, there's a soft offering of peace and serenity. 

You wonder if love should feel so safe, so enveloping, so… real. Your mind supplies, same product different brand, different hand, but there's gentleness in his that you have a hard time recognizing after years, there's promise and though it shakes, you intertwine your pinky around his and swear. 

You don't believe in love anymore.

But when you touch foreheads and breathe, his supporting yours and yours supporting his, you can't believe in love any more.