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His first time is your last, your relationship is out of order but you don’t know for who. Before he sends you on this mission he is so tender with you, holds you so gently when he kisses you. The sex is filled with love and laughter and this unbearably heavy sadness.
The whole time, he’s got this look in his eyes. Taking you in bit by bit, quietly consuming every detail. In a few days, you’ll understand that look. He’s memorizing your features, committing you to memory.
The next time you see him, he’s taking in your features again. This time, they’re not the experienced eyes of your lover. They’re the wary eyes of a stranger who doesn’t trust you. You can’t react, can’t run away to the bathroom and scream, can’t spit curses at him and the whole stupid mission, but fuck do you want to.
He knew where he was sending you, and you know he couldn’t say anything lest he risk preventing the whole damn relationship, but your heart aches to see his eyes one more time.
Instead, you laugh at the man in front of you, blush at his clumsy attempts at flirting.
You savor your lasts, you love him so wholly that you could burn the world with it. You savor your lasts. Because these are his firsts.