I've sought him out for fun. For drinks and making out. I've sought him out for sex. For the shiver of need that cuts through me, out of nowhere, nodding off on the bus or reading on the couch.
But yesterday, it was comfort. Because the thing I wanted most in the world was the feel of his t-shirt against my face.
This is how it happens. No fireworks, no swelling music. Just a slow creep of comfort, like moss, softening rough stone.