Whipped Vanilla. Soft Cashmere. Skin to Skin.
The room was bathed in the soft glow of early morning light, filtering through sheer curtains that swayed ever so slightly.
The scent of whipped vanilla lingered in the air from the candle she had forgotten to blow out last night. It mixes with the warmth of his skin, the faintest trace of his cologne still clinging to him.
She watches him sleep, his face serene, his breaths slow and steady. The way the golden sunlight catches in his hair makes him look ethereal, like something out of a dream.
A dream she doesn’t quite understand but doesn’t want to wake from either.
Love had never been something she could define. It was always too big, too distant, like trying to hold water in cupped hands.
But here, in this quiet moment, she knows she feels something. Something deep, something warm, something terrifying, in the best way.
She shifts slightly beneath the soft cashmere blanket, careful not to wake him. His arm is still draped over her, heavy and solid, an anchor in the quiet morning. She likes that—likes the way he holds her, the way she fits against him.
Skin to skin.
She feels safe in a way she’s never quite felt before.
She wonders if this is love. Or if love is something that grows in moments like these, quiet and gentle, rather than crashing in all at once like a storm. Maybe love isn’t grand gestures or poetic confessions. Maybe it’s just this—a shared breath, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers twitch slightly in sleep, as if even unconscious, he’s reaching for her.
A part of her is scared. Scared of needing this, of wanting something so much it aches. Scared of what it would mean if she let herself fall completely. But she’s learning that not all fear is bad. Some fear is exhilarating, standing at the edge of something beautiful and unknown.
She lets out a soft breath and presses the lightest kiss to his shoulder. He stirs but doesn’t wake, only shifts closer, pulling her in without thinking. And maybe, just maybe, she’s okay with being a little scared if it means waking up to this.
Then, a sleepy groan rumbles in his chest. His eyes flutter open, hazy with sleep, and he blinks at her. A slow, lazy smile tugs at his lips.
"Were you watching me?" His voice is thick with sleep, teasing, warm.
She feels heat creep up her neck but rolls her eyes. "You were snoring. I was considering smothering you."
He chuckles, voice still rough from sleep. "Liar. You like staring at me. It’s okay, I get it. I am very nice to look at."
She swats his arm, but he catches her wrist and pulls her closer, pressing his forehead against hers. "Good morning," he murmurs, his breath warm against her lips.
She exhales, feeling the last of her hesitation melt away. "Good morning."
And just like that, the fear doesn’t seem so big anymore.
