Qeya River weeping willow

her ear flicks, but she does not immediately answer. she breathes against him, her jaw resting near the rise and fall of his chest.   

she was. how could she not? it played over and over in her head, not as regret, not as something to mourn, but it rooted itself deep. a permanent thing.   

"not intentionally." when his nose brushes along the curve of her neck, she does not stiffen—she lets him. quiet comfort, unspoken understanding.   

her voice is quieter when she speaks again, rough around the edges. "I don’t regret it." a pause. then, almost absently: "it was easy." easier than it should have been.