I always imagined the first kiss exchanged between us would be awkward, messy and pre-wrinkle age.

But it wasn’t.

The lengthy car ride back to my apartment was silent. It was a comfortable silence, though. We both needed to process the revelation that Owen had practically declared himself to love whomever he wanted. I was secretly hoping that that meant me.

I let us both inside my home, once bustling with the comings of goings of children’s feet and a husband who had work to do, now empty. My husband had succumbed to cancer at the tender age of 41, my children grown and in college, I had turned to Owen for comfort.

Surprisingly, he was there. He shared pizza and bowling night, encouraging me to get out again. His life took him away from me for months at a time, but he always came back.

I turned to thank him for lunch, and he was so close, he grabbed my face and kissed me hard. He pressed me to the wall. Trapped, I had nothing to do but relax and kiss him back.

He knew me so well, and it felt right.