mel

— "The moon's moving away from us. Like an inch and a half a year. Eventually there won't be one." He says it into the dark like it's just occurred to him. It probably just has.

— "Your feet are freezing. What is going on in your circulatory system."

— Rolls over. Rolls back. Rolls over again. "You up?" You are now. "Sorry. Never mind. Go back to sleep."

— "If you had to pick between never having caffeine again or never having sugar again." He waits. Wants your actual answer.

— His mouth against your shoulder. Half-asleep. "Glad you're here." You almost miss it.

— "Babies don't have kneecaps until they're like three." "Joe." "It's true. Look it up."

— "Y/N." "Hm." "Do you think Batman would beat me in a fight." "He's fictional." "Yeah but hypothetically."

— From a dead sleep: "The word for the smell of rain on dry ground is petrichor." Then immediately back asleep.

— Starts telling you the plot of a documentary he watched on the flight home. You're falling asleep. He knows. He keeps going.

— "There's a fossil in Wyoming where you can see a fish eating another fish. It got fossilized mid-bite." "That's dark." "Yeah."

— "You're using all the blanket." "I'm not." "You are." You give him some blanket. "Thanks."

— "Bees can recognize human faces. They can pick you out of a lineup."

— "The T-Rex could barely lift its arms. Imagine being that big and being useless." Silence. "Sorry. That's mean."

— "Your alarm on for tomorrow?" You tell him yes. "For sure?" Yes. "Okay." A minute later: "Can I check it? Just to make sure?"

— Half-asleep. Mumbled into your hair. Genuinely concerned: "What if we invented cheese wrong."

— Middle of the night. His hand on your face in the dark. Not moving. Just resting there. He doesn't say anything for a long time. Then: "I'm glad you're mine."

Predictably, Luke was already half-awake. He sprawled across the mattress, one massive arm draped over your waist, pulling you back against the heat of his chest once he saw you stir even by the slightest bit. The sheer scale of him provided a contrast you leaned into with a contented sigh. Even in the haze of early morning, he smelled like the shower gel he used the night prior. His chin tucked into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, grounding you before the chaos of the day could take hold.

He gave you time to choose whether you would attempt to drift back to sleep in his arms or succumb to the pull of the day. And to his surprise, you didn’t fight your awakening. You shifted in his hold, your back sliding away from the warm broad expanse of his chest as you turned to face him. The morning light brought a golden glow to your brown skin, framing a face that was already softening with hazy morning affection.

You pushed your face deeper into his chest, nosing along the hard line of his pectoral muscles before looking up at him with a heavy-lidded gaze. “You broke me,” you whispered, your voice still thick, syllables slow from sleep. You knew exactly what you were doing, trailing your fingers up the slope of his shoulder to tangle them in the short, dark curls at the nape of his neck. The frustration of your packed Tuesday had evaporated, replaced by a sudden, humming urgency that made the thought of having to get up for the day feel miles and miles away.

Luke let out a low, vibrating chuckle that you felt in your ribcage from the press of your body against his. He didn’t say a word of rebuttal at first. His eyes simply darkened, reading your intent with a quiet focus. “I didn’t think I was that rough last night,” he snickered softly, leaving the lightest kisses over your temple and the bridge of your nose. His hands, large and calloused, slid from your waist to the small of your back, pressing your hips firmly against his. You leaned into the deeper press with an unconscious purr, letting him dictate the tempo of the morning.

“Not what I was talking about, Kuechly,” you muttered, your left hand cupping his jaw, a soft smile crossing your face, while he pulled your left thigh over his hip, locking you in place.

“Enlighten me,” he replied, his palm sliding upward from your thigh to cup the back of your head, guiding your face just inches from his. The deep vibration of his voice seemed to echo in the small space between you, a low frequency that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. He wasn’t rushing you, allowing you to lean into the tender hunger of the morning.

Your lips brushed against the sensitive skin on the under side of his jaw, mouthing with gentle pecks. You felt him shudder against you, a subtle ripple of muscle that proved how much he craved your touch despite his outward patience. You breathed him in and let out a soft, shaky exhale against his neck before you replied. “I don’t have to be up for another hour and a half. And yet, somehow, I’m up before the sun is out.”

Luke chuckled under his breath. His hands squeezed along your thighs and backside, indulging in the feel of your body at his mercy and your plush lips worshipping his skin. “Thankfully the sun doesn’t dictate when I can have you,” he murmured, his voice dropping.

He didn’t wait for you to respond, instead shifting his weight to roll you beneath him. The movement was fluid, a testament to his strength as he pinned you to the mattress with a gentle but absolute authority, his broad chest creating a canopy of warmth that eclipsed the prickly air from the A/C permanently set to 60-something degrees the minute Luke stepped foot into your home after a day or two away.

You let out a soft, breathless gasp as his weight settled over you, your legs tangling with his in a desperate search for more friction. You felt the rough texture of his palms against the smoothness of your skin, a contrast you had proudly grown addicted to over the course of three years. He began to trail slow, deliberate kisses down the length of your throat, his lips lingering on the pulsing vein of your neck. He knew exactly where you were most sensitive, and he took his time, savoring your back arching off the sheets and your nails digging into the muscles of his upper arms and back.

“I can put you back to sleep if you really want me to. Fuck you right back to sleep,” Luke murmured. He commanded the space around you, keeping his movements controlled. He shifted his weight, bracing his weight on one forearm and using his other hand to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. He lingered there for a heartbeat, his green eyes piercing into yours, waiting for the shakily whispered consent to advance with his plot. At your command, he dipped his head, capturing your mouth in a deep, hungry kiss.

You moaned into the kiss, your hands sliding down his back to grip the firm muscles of his glutes, pulling him flush against you. The friction of his muscular frame against your curves created a spark that shattered your nerves. You felt the heavy, rhythmic thrum of his heart against your own, a steady beat that anchored you while everything else felt like it was floating away at the command of his touch. Luke’s hands wandered with a familiarity born of years of devotion, tracing the line of your ribs and the dip of your waist before settling firmly on your hips, grounding you beneath him.

The mattress creaked under his bulk as he guided your legs wider, his large hand sliding from your hip to the inner curve of your thigh. He began to move against you with a teasing friction that brought your first moans of the day floating up to his ears. The hand cupping your jaw moved down your body, squeezing at your chest as his tongue pressed flat against yours, the kiss deepening until you were breathing each other’s air.

“Can I take these off, sweetheart?” he asked, fingers dipping into the waistband of your silk shorts. He didn’t wait for a verbal answer, reading the tilt of your hips as a definitive yes. With one fluid motion, he cleared the fabric away, leaving you completely exposed to the cool morning air for only a second before he replaced that chill with the searing heat of his own body. He paused there, bracing himself on his elbows, simply looking you over. The brown of your skin seemed to glow against the white linens, and the raw, unfiltered adoration in his eyes made you shy.

He began to kiss you again, but this time he moved lower, his lips grazing down the center of your chest before trailing a path of heat down to your stomach. He lingered at the dip of your navel. “Just perfect,” he whispered in awe, the affirmation acting as a catalyst in sending a fresh wave of desire coursing through you. You let out a shaky laugh, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him back up to you.

“What?” he huffed, tucking his ring and middle finger into his mouth, wetting them thoroughly before sliding them between your thighs. He didn’t look away from your eyes, utilizing a patience that was almost cruel in its precision. He circled the center of your heat, barely grazing you, causing you to tilt your pelvis upward in a silent, desperate plea for more.

“Luke,” you whimpered, the sound catching in your throat.

“We have so much time. Wanted to taste my perfect girl first,” Luke mumbled, his fingers finally finding the rhythm you craved upon breaching your entrance. He pushed your thighs back, ensuring your knees nearly touched your shoulders to leave your pussy open for his visual benefit. His eyes tracked the way your pupils dilated and chest heaved. He was a strategist by nature, and in the quiet sanctuary of your bedroom, that intelligence translated into a devastatingly precise understanding of your body.

“Tonight. I promise I’ll let you tonight. Just…” you managed through a series of soft moans, your head tossing back against the pillow as his fingers worked a rhythm that felt like he was rewriting your nervous system to respond to him only.

“You promise? Sit on my face and everything?” he asked as his fingers pumped a deeper, more demanding rhythm.

“I swear I will—fuck, Luke…” your voice broke as he hit a specific, sensitive spot, your hips bucking instinctively against his hand. The promise was barely a whisper, lost in the sudden, sharp intake of breath that signaled you were hovering on the precipice.

Luke didn’t let you fall over the edge just yet. He withdrew his fingers, leaving you feeling cold and empty for a fleeting heartbeat. He shifted, the mattress groaning under the redistribution of his weight as he positioned himself between your thighs. He didn’t rush the entry; instead, he pressed the broad, angry red head of his length against your clit.

You winced, moan hitching, chin dipping to watch as he slowly merged your bodies. Luke entered you with a singular, steady push, filling you completely. He let out a guttural groan, the sound vibrating deep in his chest, and buried his face in the crook of your neck. He stayed still for a long moment, allowing your muscles to stretch and accommodate him, his forehead resting against yours as your breathing synchronized into a heavy, ragged rhythm.

“You’re so tight, honey,” he rasped. “Always so perfect for me.”

“So fucking big,” you whimpered as you wrapped your arms around his torso, pulling him down. You felt the sheer mass of him pinning you into the mattress and moaned happily.

Luke didn’t immediately start to move but remained anchored deep within you, his hands sliding under your lower back to lift your hips higher, reaching blindly for a pillow to perfectly tilt your pelvis as a means of deepening the penetration. The adjustment made the connection absolute, leaving no space between you, and you let out a long, trembling exhale that sounded like a form of surrender.

When he finally began to move, it wasn't with the frantic energy of a race, but with the measured, deliberate pace of a marathon. He pulled back until he was nearly gone, only to drive back home into you with a slow, crushing depth that forced a high, melodic keen from your throat. He kept you pressed deep into the mattress, encouraging your hands to wander over the broad expanse of his back, into his dampening curls, and over the hard ridges of his shoulder blades. Every slide of skin against skin felt amplified in the morning silence, a heavy friction that built a slow fire in the pit of your stomach.

“Fuck,” he grunted, letting his rhythm falter for a second before picking back up as he tightened his grip on your body, his fingers digging into the soft give of your skin. “Feel like you were made for me. Just for me.”

“Just for you,” you gasped. You arched your back, chasing the friction, your hair falling out of your silk scarf and sprawling across the white pillowcases. The world outside the bedroom, the studio, the endless emails, the traveling, had ceased to exist. There was only the scent of Luke’s skin, the crushing weight of his chest against yours, and the guttural sounds of his exertion.

Luke shifted his grip, sliding his large hands under your thighs and hooking them over his broad shoulders. The change in angle allowed him to dive deeper, hitting a spot that made your entire body seize. You let out a sharp, uncontrolled cry, your fingers digging into his scalp. He leaned in, his lips grazing your ear as he began to whisper, his voice a low, rumbling vibration that bypassed your mind and went straight to your core.

“Swear I won’t be able to stop myself from fucking you every single morning if you keep making those sounds,” Luke rumbled, his voice a velvet sandpaper against your skin. “Might even give you a baby, make you a momma, just so I can keep you in this bed forever.”

The suggestion, delivered in that possessive, deep groan make you whimper, your legs tightening around his neck, pulling him in as if you could merge your souls through sheer force. The thought of being filled by him in every sense of the word made your walls pulse rhythmically around him, a desperate, welcoming squeeze that nearly broke his composure.

“You fucking like that don’t you? Ruining your summer plans,” Luke groaned, accelerating the tempo of his hips. The previously slow, methodical pace shifted into something more primal, a steady, driving force that echoed the thumping of your own heart. You couldn’t find words anymore, only fragmented sounds: sharp intakes of breath and soft, desperate whimpers that guided him deeper into your heat.

“There you go, sweetheart,” he commended, his voice raspy. “Stay right here with me. Let me feel everything.”

The friction intensified, a searing heat that blurred the edges of the room until your entire universe was reduced to the point where you joined. Luke’s breathing had turned into heavy, rhythmic huffs, his chest heaving against yours with every powerful thrust. He gave and took away all the same. Every time you gasped, he adjusted the angle by a fraction of an inch, hunting for the exact pressure that would push you closer to the edge.

“Cum for me,” he commanded softly, clearly nearing his own limit but still prioritizing you.

You forced your heavy eyelids open, your brown eyes glazed and shimmering with tears of pleasure. When you met his gaze, you saw an unfiltered intensity in his green eyes, a mixture of protective devotion and a hunger that felt infinite.

“I gotcha, baby. Just cum for me,” he repeated. Luke watched your expression shift, tracking the exact moment your eyes squeezed shut with tracks of tears slipping down over your cheeks and your lips parted in a silent, breathless plea accentuated with a broken moan. He pressed a tender kiss to the tip of your nose. “Give it to me, beautiful. Let her go for me.”

Your inner muscles clamped around him in a series of pulses that brought both of you to orgasm. A high, melodic scream tore from your throat, your back arching so sharply that only your heels and shoulders remained grounded in the mattress. The pleasure was a blinding white light, a tidal wave that drenched you and left you trembling in the aftermath. He moaned through the flashes of clarity, sticky ropes of cum filling you deep, as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his heavy frame collapsing onto you with a soft, shuddering exhale.

For several long minutes, neither of you could speak. He shifted his weight to his elbows to avoid crushing you, though you only responded by winding your arms tighter around his neck, pulling him back down to press a lingering, salty kiss to his jaw.

You let out a long, shaky sigh, your muscles feeling like weakened rubber. You loved this part almost as much as the act itself, this heavy, golden silence of the aftermath where the only clock that mattered was the one keeping time on your synchronized breathing. You tilted your head back, looking up at him with a drowsy, satisfied smile. “Thank you, bear,” you whispered.

He pressed a kiss to your temple, his hand sliding down to cup your cheek. “Hopefully you’ll be less cranky now,” he teased.

“No,” you whined, your voice a syrupy, sleep-laden honey that barely reached a whisper. You didn’t open your eyes, but you managed to slide your leg over his, anchoring him to the mattress with the sheer weight of your defiance alone.

“Baby,” Mat laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest where your head rested. He tried to gently pry your fingers from his shirt, but you only hummed in protest, burying your face deeper into the crook of his shoulder. “I have a flight in a few hours, princess. Liana is genuinely going to murder me if I miss my flight.”

You finally cracked your eyes open, your expression shifting into a calculated, brow-furrowed pout that you knew usually worked. “All your stuff is pretty much practically packed though,” you murmured, your voice regaining a bit of its usual melodic clarity as you slowly awakened. “Why do you have to leave now? You could just… stay in bed for like another hour.”

You shifted your weight, sliding your body upward until your chin rested on his chest, your eyes searching his for any hint of giving in to your wish.

Mat let out a loud, dramatic groan, though his hand had already found its way to the small of your back, his palm warm through your oversized shirt. “Liana will fucking murder me if I miss this flight,” he repeated, his accent much heavier under the haze of having just woken up, though the resolve in his voice was crumbling away.

He knew the game you were playing, loved it even if he was almost guaranteed to lose. He loved it when you tried to negotiate for every single second of his presence, and he loved it when you looked at him like he was the only thing in the room that mattered.

“I’m sorry you can’t come with me,” he hummed, pushing your silk bonnet back from your forehead just enough to kiss along your hairline.

You let out a soft, theatrical huff, crossing your arms over your chest and turning your face away from him without removing yourself from his warmth. You went still, your expression hardening into a mask of upset disappointment, letting Mat continue rubbing your back in the silence. You had begun table readings for a new movie last week, which forced you to fly back and forth between Los Angeles and New York, leaving you unable to join Mat on his week-long trip to see his sister in London.

Mat didn’t miss the subtle flicker of your eyelashes or the way your lip trembled with a suppressed smile just a fraction too much to be genuine. He knew the blueprint of your moods, and he knew that when you played the part of the saddened lover, the only cure was a total surrender of his attention. He shifted, rolling over so he could pin you gently against the pillows, his large frame enveloping you and leaving you without the ability to escape his affections.

“Oh, so we’re doing the cold shoulder now?” he teased, his voice dropping.

He began to pepper your face with quick, light kisses, starting with the tip of your nose, moving to each eyelid, and finally grazing the corner of your mouth. You tried to keep your face stony, but a small, betraying giggle escaped you. Mat didn’t stop; he moved to your jawline and the sensitive dip of your collarbone, raining down a barrage of affection that left your breathless.

“You can’t be mad at me, dude. If I leave this place knowing you’re pouting, it’ll ruin my whole week. I’ll be sitting on the plane thinking about how sad you are, and I just can’t handle that.” His kisses continued, migrating to your cheek and then your temple, his voice filled with a playful, exaggerated desperation.

You let out a genuine laugh, the sound bright and airy, as you finally collapsed back into the pillows. You reached up, your fingers cupping his jaw, feeling the slight prickle of stubble from two straight nights of neglecting to shave. The facade of your anger dissolved completely, replaced by a lingering, loving gaze. “You’re so fucking corny,” you whispered, though you squeezed his waist tightly, pulling him back down for a lingering kiss that tasted of sleepy contentment.

“Corny, but effective,” Mat countered, his grin widening as he finally rolled off you, though he stayed on top of you long enough to press one last kiss to the center of your forehead. He stood up, the sudden movement bringing a rush of cool air into the space where your warmth had been concentrated. He stretched, his joints popping with a series of audible clicks that made you wrinkle your nose in amusement.

You sighed, the sound more of a contented hum as you turned onto your side. You propped your head up onto your hand, watching him stretch and groan. His plaid pajama pants hung low enough on his hips that the line of his Apollo’s belt was evident, and the sight of him and all his long limbs and haphazard energy made the thought of an empty bed feel that much more disappointing.

“Do you want me to make you breakfast?” you asked through a yawn. Your chin tilted upwards, a small smile crossing your lips, when he approached you once more to steal another kiss. “Or I can help you double-check your luggage. Whatever you need from me.”

He hummed in thought, still kissing you lightly until he pulled away after making up his mind, his eyes scanning your sleepy face. “Actually,” he started, his voice still raspy from sleep, “just stay right there. Or, well, stay near me. I can finish packing my stuff and make a quick bite to eat, but I just want to look at you. Need to see this face so I don’t wallow in fucking misery during this flight.”

You rolled your eyes, pursing your lips together to stop your smile from giving away how much you loved his show of clinginess. Instead, you shifted, sliding out from under the heavy duvet just enough to sit up. You leaned your back against the headboard, your legs tucked beneath yourself, watching him with an indulgent gaze as he began to move through the room.

The two of you settled into quiet conversation between Mat’s finishing touches on his packing, brushing his teeth, and double-checking that his passport was tucked securely into his carry-on. Every time Mat passed you to grab a charger or a stray hat, his hands would find your skin. He moved like a satellite orbiting you, always returning to your gravity, unable to bear the thought of being more than a few feet away even while he was preparing to leave.

Eventually you made your way downstairs, the silence of the apartment feeling heavy and depressing in the pre-dawn stillness. The kitchen was bathed in the soft, amber glow of the under-cabinet lighting, casting long shadows across the marble island where you now leaned, your chin resting on your palms. Even in his rush as he realized how late it was getting, Mat couldn’t seem to break the physical connection: as he reached for his bag, he paused to lean in, folding you into his chest for a long, swaying hug.

“You’re actually going to be late,” you giggled, though you didn’t move an inch to let him go.

“Five more minutes, gorgeous,” Mat murmured, his voice muffled against the crown of your head. He squeezed you tight, lifting you off your feet to let you wrap your legs around his waist, grounding himself in the feeling of you against him. He breathed you in, taking in your expensive lotions and moisturizers, refusing to let the ticking clock in the hallway win just yet.

He set you back down with a soft sigh. “Dude. I hate this shit. You just got back two days ago and now I’m leaving for a week.”

“I know. But it’s been a minute since you’ve seen your sister and spent time with her just the two of you,” you replied, your voice softening as you reached up to straighten the collar of his shirt. You smoothed your hand down his chest, then reached around to the back of his head. “It’ll be good. She’ll keep you busy. And I’ll be back the day after you get back with a clear schedule. We can spend the weekend at your place.”

Mat let out a low, longing sound and leaned his forehead against yours, his eyes closing for a brief second of stillness, feeling your arms wrap over his shoulders and around his neck. “Deal. Full weekend locked inside, just us, no phones, no clothes—”

“I didn’t say that part,” you laughed, though you didn’t pull away, your fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. You gave a playful little tug, just enough to make him wince and grin simultaneously. “Focus.”

She could hear his voice floating through the house, on a phone call with someone. It seemed to be a professional call given the way he made sure he sounded moderately cheerful but still evenly mellowed in his tone. She padded down the hallway in her socks, pausing when Colby intercepted her path. She scooped him up with a grin, airkissing his nose.

“I missed you, my baby,” she murmured, continuing toward the bedroom while the kitten purred against her chest. The moment she crossed the threshold, she set Colby free and treaded over to her closet to slip out of her scrubs and into one of Joe’s more modest graphic t-shirts.

Joe’s voice grew louder as he wandered into their room, still mid-conversation. “Yeah, I’ll look at those tonight—”

He stopped when he saw her sprawled across the bed. She didn’t lift her head, but she felt the mattress dip as he sat beside her, his free hand running down her back. After several moments she flipped onto her back, unable to help the smile that pulled at her lips when Joe mouthed ‘Hi’ before turning his attention back to whoever was on the phone. She stretched her arms overhead, sinking deeper into the sheets with a silent yawn as Joe continued his call.

Between conversation Joe managed to find chances to mute his side of the call long enough to bend and press a kiss to her forehead or her cheek or eventually her lips while she lay beneath him. She smiled up at him, watching fondly, feeling warmth on her skin underneath the palm he rubbed over her exposed thigh, down to her knee, and back up again.

Joe ended the call with a soft tap of his thumb against the screen, tossing his phone onto the nightstand. The mattress shifted again as he stretched out beside her, his body curling toward hers. She turned her head just enough to catch the wear of the day in the slope of his rigid shoulders.

His head found its way to her chest her fingers already carding through his hair before he’d fully settled. “How was your press conference today?” she murmured, thumb tracing the outside curve of his ear.

Joe made a noise halfway between a sigh and a tired groan, his breath warm through the thin cotton of her stolen shirt. “It was fine mostly. Normal stuff. Got a few questions about you.”

Her fingers stilled in his hair for a second before resuming their slow path from crown to nape. “About me?”

Joe’s nose scrunched against her collarbone, his exhale ruffling the fabric. “Yeah. All horribly phrased, obviously fishing.” He tilted his head just enough to catch her eye, the dry amusement in his voice softening the visible tension in his jaw. “Someone asked if getting engaged changed up my perspective on preseason prep.”

“Horrible question,” she empathized with him through a giggle.

“Terrible,” he agreed, shifting slightly to press his forehead against her sternum. “Flacco hadn’t seen your ring so I showed him a picture.”

She brushed the golden brown hair flopping over his forehead back enough to press a kiss there. “Flacco’s a sweetheart,” she said, kissing his temple next. “I’m glad he’s back.”

Joe released a laugh through his nose, eyes fluttering shut as she scratched gently along his scalp. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the sheer curtains, painting them both in gold.

They lay in mirrored silence for a while: her fingers in his hair, his palm over her ribs rising with each breath. His eyes slowly shut as his breathing deepened. “I’m gonna fall asleep like this,” he murmured.

You’ve been at his place since seven. It’s almost eleven. You’ve been pulling at the hem of your sweater every fifteen minutes since the credits ran.

Your bag is by the door. The overnight one. You packed it like you were going to summer camp — your own toothbrush, your own face wash, pajamas, a book you won’t read. He has spares of most of it. You brought yours anyway.

He tops off your wine without you asking. His hand is warm on your back for two seconds, then gone.

“I can drive you home if you want to go,” he says.

“I know.”

He watches you. “Okay.”

You finish the wine. Set the glass down. “I don’t want to drive home tonight.”

He doesn’t move. Then he nods, once. Doesn’t make it a thing. “Okay.”

—

He doesn’t make a thing of getting you back to the bedroom. Takes your hand. The hall lights are off, just the lamp in his room. You’re glad about the lamp.

You sit on the edge of the bed, pull your sweater off over your head, and hold it against your chest. Your bra is one of the older ones. You’d thought about buying something earlier, then decided not to, because it felt like trying too hard.

You cross your arms.

“Hey.” His voice is closer than you expected. He’s crouched in front of you. His hands are on your knees, not your arms. “Look at me.”

You look at him.

“I want to see you,” he says. “Is that okay?”

He doesn’t repeat himself. He just waits.

“Yeah,” you say.

He gives it another second. Then his hands move. Slow. He pulls your arms down and keeps looking at your face.

“Look at you,” he says.

He stands and finishes undressing himself. He’s matter-of-fact about it.

He gets onto the bed with you. Pulls you in slowly. His hand on your jaw, then your hair, then your shoulder. He just kisses you for a while, and you catch yourself trying to participate from the right angle.

“Sorry,” you say. “I’m in my head.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Sorry.”

“Hey. No.” He doesn’t move. “Don’t apologize.”

You stay there with his forehead against yours.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I don’t want you to stop.”

He reaches behind you and gets your bra off. He slowly pulls it down your arms. Tosses it.

You wait for him to look at you the way you’re expecting. You’ve already started to angle your body for it, your shoulders coming forward, your chin tilting away.

He looks at you. He doesn’t change.

That’s the part you weren’t ready for. He’s looking at you the same way he looked at you in the kitchen. At dinner. On his couch a month ago, when you were arguing about a movie. Same eyes. Same attention. Like nothing about you being undressed asks a different look from him.

You stop angling yourself.

“Yeah,” he says, like he was waiting on it.

He goes back to kissing you. He takes his time. He kisses your mouth before anything else, then your collarbone, then your shoulder, each time stopping and coming back up. He’s not in any hurry to get past anything.

You don’t have a system for being kissed like this. You’re a little embarrassed at how unprepared you are.

When he gets to your sternum, he stays there a while. His hand is open and flat on your stomach. You don’t brace. Halfway through, you realize you don’t brace, and that lands somewhere in you.

He looks up at you from your sternum. Smiles. Goes back to it.

He kisses between your ribs, lower. He kisses your stomach, where you weren’t expecting, and he stays there for longer than you can quite understand. You try to turn your face. His thumb comes up under your jaw. He doesn’t push it. He waits there.

You turn your face back yourself.

“There you go,” he says.

He comes back up to kiss your mouth. His hand drifts lower. Slow. He stops where he can feel you decide.

“Yeah,” you say.

He’s careful about it. His fingers, then his mouth back on yours, then his fingers again. He’s checking. He’s taking his time. He doesn’t act like it’s an inconvenience.

He moves over you. Not on you yet. His weight on his elbows, his face close to yours.

“You sure?” he says.

You nod.

“Tell me.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

He kisses you when he pushes in. Slow. He doesn’t go far the first time. He stops, gives you a second, then more, then stops again.

You realize halfway through that he’s never going to do all of it at once. He’s going to keep stopping. He’s going to keep checking.

You don’t know what to do with that.

He says your name. He kisses your jaw. He kisses the side of your mouth. When he finally settles fully against you, his chest against yours, he doesn’t move for a second.

“Okay?” he says, soft.

“Yeah.”

He kisses you again. Then he moves.

He keeps his face close the whole time. Every time you think you might close your eyes, he’s right there, mouth at the corner of yours, his forehead against yours, breathing against your skin. He’s talking quietly. You’re catching some of it.

He’s saying your name. He’s saying I’ve got you. He starts to say something about how you feel and doesn’t finish it. He’s saying keep looking at me.

You keep looking at him.

You catch yourself in your head about it. You’re waiting for him to be done. It’s the part where the other guys have always been done — before you got there, while you were still close, while you were going to spend the next twenty minutes being polite about it.

He’s not close. You can feel that he’s not. He’s slow on purpose.

You stop bracing.

He keeps coming back to your mouth. Every time you make a sound, he makes one back, low. Like he can’t help it.

The tears come first. They’re at the edges of your eyes before the rest of it does. You don’t know what they’re about. Just that everything feels good. There’s too much of it.

You try to keep them there.

It builds. It keeps building. He’s holding most of his weight on one arm now, his other hand under your jaw, his thumb at the corner of your mouth. He kisses you, and you can feel words against your mouth.

When it hits, it hits like the volume went up on everything at once. You’re not quiet about it. He keeps going, slow, his face pressed against your temple. Your hand is in his hair, gripping hard enough you’ll think about it later.

The tears come with it. You feel them go. He’s right there against your face. He has to know.

He keeps going. He doesn’t say anything about the tears. His breath catches a little. He’s close.

When he comes, he stays right there next to your face. He says your name. He doesn’t move off you right away.

When he does move, it’s carefully. He pulls out slowly. He shifts down beside you and pulls you against him, his arm under your shoulders, your face at his collarbone.

You’re against him. He’s still breathing hard. He’s still here.

He kisses the top of your head. His hand is flat between your shoulder blades, moving slowly, up and down. His other arm is still under you, his fingers spread across your ribs.

He holds you like that for a while.

You can feel his heart against your ear. You can feel his breathing coming back to him, slow. He’s not in a hurry. After a second, you realize he hasn’t moved. This is still happening.

His hand moves up to the back of your neck. His thumb starts making small circles there. You weren’t expecting that. You don’t know what to do with how much you want it to keep going.

You wipe at your face. You’re embarrassed about it.

“Sorry,” you say. “I don’t know why I’m crying. I’m not sad.”

He kisses the top of your head. “That was overwhelming. It’s okay.”

“I’m not sad. I don’t even know why I’m —”

“Hey. That was a lot. That happens.”

“Sorry.”

“Hey. Don’t say sorry. Look at me.”

You tilt your face up.

He kisses your forehead. “It was overwhelming. You’re allowed to cry. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He holds your gaze for another second. Then he kisses your mouth, soft.

“Come on,” he says. “Up.”

He stands and offers you a hand. You take it. You stand up. Your legs aren’t quite under you yet. He doesn’t let go.

He reaches for the gray sweatshirt of his on the chair by the bed. The one you’ve borrowed before.

“Arms up.”

You put your arms up. He pulls the sweatshirt over your head. It’s enormous. It comes down to your thighs.

He keeps a hand on the small of your back and walks you to the bathroom. He grabs your overnight bag on the way — the one that’s been by the bedroom door all night.

He flips on the bathroom light. Not the overhead. The small one over the mirror. Warm, yellow.

He sets the bag down on the counter and opens it. He looks for what he needs.

“Where’s your face wash?”

“Side pocket.”

He finds it. He runs the water until it’s warm. Tests it with the back of his hand. Then he pumps face wash into his palm and turns to you.

“Eyes closed, baby.”

You close them.

His hand on your face is wet and warm. He works the face wash across your forehead, your cheeks, the spots where the tears dried.

“Okay. Rinse.”

He cups water in his hand and brings it up. You feel it on your face. He does it twice more. Then he reaches past you for a hand towel and presses it gently to your skin.

“Open.”

You open your eyes.

He’s right there. You can see yourself in the mirror behind him — your wet face, your hair tangled, his gray sweatshirt almost down to your thighs. You can see him too. His shoulders, his hand on your jaw, the way he’s looking at you.

You look like you’re being taken care of.

You think about how he opened your bag without asking. How he knew exactly what to find. How he did it, like it was nothing.

You don’t know what to do with that.

He turns to the bag again. He finds your toothbrush. He finds your toothpaste. He twists the cap off the toothpaste and squeezes a line onto the brush. Hand it to you.

“Here.”

He grabs his own off the cup by the sink and starts brushing.

You stand at the sink next to him and brush your teeth. You catch yourself in the mirror again — brushing, with him next to you doing the same thing. He’s brushing his teeth at the sink next to you. Like that’s what you do at the end of the night.

You spit. He spits. He rinses his brush and sets it back in the cup. He rinses yours and sets it next to his.

He turns the bathroom light off. He walks you back to the bed.

He pulls the comforter back. “In.”

You get in. He gets in after you. He pulls the comforter up over both of you. He doesn’t reach for his phone. You realize halfway through that you’ve been waiting for him to. He doesn’t.

He pulls you against him. Your head goes back against his chest. His arm settles heavy across your middle.

You can feel his chest moving under your cheek. You can feel him exhale into your hair. The weight of his arm makes you aware of how much of him is wrapped around you. You don’t have a name for what that feels like.

His thumb is moving along your hipbone, slow. You don’t think he knows he’s doing it.

“You doing okay?” he says.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He kisses the top of your head. “Okay.”

You stay like that for a while. His hand on your back, your face against his sweatshirt, the lamp still on. The crying slows. You wipe at your face with the sleeve.

His hand keeps moving — slow, palm flat, down to the small of your back. He doesn’t stop.

You can feel your shoulders coming down. You hadn’t noticed they were up.

You think about how much smaller you feel like this. Like you could fall asleep against him if you let yourself.

You feel it come back. The thing. You don’t even fight it this time. It’s a small wave, your shoulders tightening once.

“Sorry,” you say. Automatic.

You try again. “No one’s done that for me before.”

He’s quiet for a second.

“Yeah,” he says. “I had a feeling.”

His thumb comes to your cheek, where the tears are.

“Baby. Stop apologizing for having feelings.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

“You had a big experience,” he says. “It made you feel a lot. You’re allowed to feel a lot. You’re not in trouble for crying.”

“I’m not?”

“No, baby.” He almost laughs. “You’re not in trouble for crying.”

You laugh too, a little. It comes out wet.

He kisses your forehead. He keeps you against him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says.

it started small. you'd reach for his hand while you were walking, and instead of the slight hesitation you'd come to expect, his fingers would immediately lace through yours like they belonged there. you'd lean into him on the couch during movies, and he'd adjust his position to make room for you, his arm coming around your shoulders without you having to ask. these tiny moments of acceptance were like water to a plant that had been left in the sun too long.

but then something shifted.

it was gradual, so gradual you almost didn't notice it at first. he started initiating. small things like his hand finding the small of your back when you were walking through a crowded restaurant, or brushing a strand of hair away from your face when you were talking, or the way he'd pull you closer in the morning instead of rolling over to check his phone.

then one night, after a particularly rough game, he came home and just collapsed into you. his head on your chest, his arms around your waist, and you realized he was seeking you out the same way you'd always sought him. he needed this too. he'd just been waiting for permission, waiting to see if it was safe.

"is this okay?" you asked softly, running your fingers through his hair, even though you already knew the answer by the way he melted into you.

"more than okay," he mumbled against your chest. "i needed this."

after that, something unlocked in him, like he'd been holding himself back and finally realized he didn't have to. the reserved quarterback with the careful demeanor slowly became someone who couldn't keep his hands off you. but not in a possessive way - it was tender, it was patient. it was like he was learning a new language and you were teaching him, one touch at a time.

he'd reach for you first now. pull you into his lap when you were sitting together, wrap his arms around you from behind while you were cooking, resting his chin on your shoulder and just being there. no words necessary. sometimes you'd be reading or scrolling on your phone and he'd just slide his hand into yours, thumb brushing across your skin absently while he watched whatever game was on.

your favorite was the mornings.

joe had never been particularly cuddly when you first started dating. or at least, you'd thought he hadn't but now you understood he'd just been scared, or maybe unsure.

now he was the one who refused to let you get out of bed, pulling you back under the covers with a sleepy smile whenever you tried to leave. his arms around you, your back against his chest, his face buried in your neck. sometimes he'd just hold you like that for hours, content to do nothing but exist in the same space, skin on skin.

"you're gonna make me late," you'd protest weakly, and he'd only pull you closer.

"worth it," he'd say, his voice still rough with sleep.

you noticed how it extended beyond just the physical act of cuddling. he'd grab your hand in the car, squeeze your shoulder when he walked past you in the kitchen, pull you into a hug when he got home from practice, like he'd been thinking about you all day and needed to confirm you were still real and every single time, you felt it - that deep, bone-level satisfaction of being touched, being wanted, being someone's priority.

one night, you were curled up on the couch, your head on his shoulder, his arm around you, your legs tangled together under a soft blanket. a game was playing quietly in the background, but neither of you was really paying attention.

"you know what i love about you?" he said suddenly, his voice soft in the quiet of your apartment.

you tilted your head up to look at him. "what?"

"that you made me realize i'm a cuddler," he said, a slight smile playing at his lips. "i never knew that about myself before you."

you laughed, surprised. "you're not a cuddler. you're just... you with me."

"same thing," he said, and he kissed the top of your head. "you let me be soft with you. you needed it, so i learned to give it and now i can't imagine being any other way."

he shifted slightly, repositioning you so you were practically in his lap, your head resting against his chest where you could hear the steady beat of his heart. his hand settled on your back, and you felt the rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of his body against yours.

"thank you," he said quietly, "for showing me how to love like this."

you didn't have words for how that made you feel. so instead, you just held on tighter, breathing him in, feeling completely and utterly safe in the arms of someone who'd learned to speak your language.

when he fell asleep like that, with you completely wrapped up in him, you realized that maybe it wasn't about him learning your love language. maybe it was about finding someone who was willing to meet you halfway, who could be soft and strong at the same time, who understood that sometimes love wasn't about grand gestures but instead, was about quiet mornings and hands held without thinking and the simple, profound act of choosing to stay close.