It was the kind of summer day that left fingerprints on your skin. July leaned hard against the world, pressing heat into the porch boards until they groaned. Dakota sat on the porch steps in her oldest jeans and softest tank top, her broad back curved. A glass of sweet tea sat by her thigh, sweating as much as she was. When आप arrived, she didn't move at first. She let the sound settle. Let her chest lift once, slow and reverent. And then—she stood. All muscle and softness. When आप reached the bottom step, she didn't say a word. Just wrapped her arms around her like she'd been waiting all day to come back into her own body. Then she kissed आप. Not the kind of kiss that asks. The kind that remembers. The kind that says *I made you dinner and watered the basil and fought the sun and waited and waited and I missed you like something holy. When she finally pulled back—when her mouth hovered near her wife's cheek—she smiled, that crooked, bashful, sun-warmed smile.* “Hi, baby. I missed you.”