The field is empty, as it always is when they meet, save for the distant thrum of insects in the grass, the occasional scuttling of a rabbit or bird. The moon, full and silent, rises high above them, a spectral overseer, casting its light in long, cold shafts that turn the world silver. 

The oak tree stands in the middle of the field, ancient, its skin dark and knotted, a silent witness to their trysts. They had found it, years ago now, by accident or fate—there was no telling which—when they were younger, still strangers to the weight of time, to the sense that something could last. The tree had been waiting for them, it seemed, its branches reaching upward as though it too longed for something to join it in its solitude.

He arrives first, as he always does. He likes to be early, to stand for a moment beneath the tree, feeling the earth’s cool breath rise up through his bare feet. He does not think of her then, at least not in the way one might think of a lover; instead, he thinks of the silence, of the way the moonlight seems to make everything in the field shimmer like the world is suspended between two realms. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of the night fill him, the whispering of the leaves, the hum of distant stars.

When she arrives, her footsteps are soft on the grass, the faintest rustle of fabric. She stands behind him for a moment, watching him as he had once watched her. She pulls at the shoulder of her dress and lets it slip over her skin like water. She is bare beneath it and she stands, nude, like an offering. 

He turns and she is there, face pale in the moonlight, eyes dark with lust, searching. The silvery light traces the delicate line of her throat, the curve of her chest, the tautness of her tummy, the cleft of her hairless pussy. 

“What if this is it,” she says more as a statement, a declaration of the moment.  

He smiles, but not the kind of smile that does not reach the eyes, a smile that is instead a surrender, a quiet acceptance of what has become their ritual. 

“And, what if it is?” he replies rhetorically. He knows. This is not it, this will never just be it. 

He moves toward her, his hands firmly grasping her hip. She responds in kind, finding the buttons of his shirt, her touch steady but trembling with the knowledge of what is to come. She undresses him completely, not with urgency, but with care, as if solidifying her fear. Each touch a memory in the making. 

“I need to know that this isn’t all it's ever gonna be. I need to know…”

He drops to his knees, naked, cock raging hard for her vulnerability, her innocence an ache that shatters his bones and makes him whole. 

“You know it's not,” he moans, his voice as solid as the mighty tree sheltering them. 

His hands glide up the back of her thighs, cupping her ass. He worships her. 

“You’ll find me, right?” Her head tilts back as she whispers to the stars above. “You’ll find me and we’ll be together in every lifetime after this one. Promise me…” 

Her pussy is swollen and glistening and he lunges to taste it. And in that moment, under their oak, it’s as if nothing else exists. No past. No future. Only present, only this fleeting eternity. 

She tangles her fingers in his thick waves of hair to grind into his mouth. Then with a jerk, she snaps his head back, his lips shimmering with her wetness. 

“Fucking promise me!”

The words pierce his eyes, down through his heart, and seem to simmer out with the precum now dotting the head of his cock.

“There is a tenderness in the way you hold me, baby. Not the soft kind that makes me forget, but the kind that makes me remember why I ever need to be held at all.” 

It’s hard to see her eyes from the way the moon shines behind her. But he could be blind and still know how she is seeing him. 

“But there’s also distance,” he continues. “It’s unspoken, stretching thin between us, and I ache for you even when you’re close because sometimes I wonder if we are both reaching for something we can never quite touch.”

She lowers, straddling his waist, his cock pinned and pulsating between their bodies. Her tongue drags over his lips in a silent act of veneration, a sacred moment held in the quiet of their shared space. 

Lifting slightly, she adjusts him and then sinks back down, the warmth of her pussy a stark contrast to the cool Southern night air. She hugs his head into her tits as if it’s a confirmation that he has said enough and she fucks him. 

She fucks him hard in the moonlight beneath the ancient tree, and for a while, they are simply two bodies, two souls lost in the quiet joy of being together. There are no more promises spoken of, no plans for tomorrow. There is only the pulse of now, the quiet acknowledgment of the bond that has formed between them, a bond that neither words nor time can ever undo.

When it is over, they lie in the grass, side by side, not touching but close enough to feel each other’s warmth. The oak tree stretches its branches overhead, its leaves rustling softly, as though to remind them that the world has not ceased turning. The moon, too, remains unchanged, indifferent to their passion, its cold light spilling over them.

They do not speak. There is no need to. They have already said everything that needs to be said in the silence of their coitus, in the meeting of their bodies, in the brief, unspoken eternal understanding that exists between them.