The forest behind our home shimmered with late-summer light. We walked barefoot along the mossy trail, the air warm and sweet with the scent of pine and distant rain. It had rained earlier, just enough to leave the earth soft beneath our feet.
You laughed as we chased the last of the sunbeams through the trees, our hands brushing against the leaves, the world unfolding around us like a forgotten fairytale. The first firefly appeared just as we reached the clearing, flickering once, then again, like a heartbeat.
You reached out and gently cupped your hands, catching one in the gentlest way. The tiny glow lit your palms, then your face, and your eyes found mine. There was wonder in them. Not just because of the firefly, but because we were here alive, young, in love.
I stepped closer and reached out, tucking a damp curl behind your ear. My fingertips lingered against your cheek. You didn't move.
We didn't speak.
And then I kissed you.
Softly, slowly, like the world was built for that one moment. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't perfect. But it was real. Fireflies floated around us, like stars had descended to witness something sacred.
When we pulled apart, there were no words. Just eyes that understood, hearts that beat in rhythm, and a forest that would remember us.