Duhitsitadori

sae blinks up at you serenely, sea green eyes drowsy and unreadable. “comfortable?”

“very much so.” your arms wind around his neck like the rose vines outside your villa walls. “and you?”

“hmm?”

his eyes trace you. the shape of your nose and the curve of your mouth. you watch them as an easy warmth settles in you like the waves of the coast.

“are you comfortable,” you say, echoing his own question back to him. knowingly, pleasantly smug.

his fingers pinch at your thighs for the cheek, and you protest, raising your weight like a bristling cat. sae hushes you as though he hadn’t been the one to prickle you, pressing a dreamy kiss to your temples.

"Look," you say, nudging at him just to feel the way he gives. "Your favorite."

Sae opens one eye. He gives the bird—circling nearer with each pass—a cursory glance.

"That's a tern," he says flatly, closing his eye again.

"What? No, that's a seagull."

"It's a tern," he says. "Now stop wiggling, you're getting sand everywhere."

"It's the beach, Sae. It's made of sand."

He hums. You huff, starting to shift away, but he tangles your legs together before you can go far. The hand on your hip is extra insurance, you suppose.

"Sae," you say.

He hums again. You try to wiggle free; he flexes his thighs and keeps you in place without any effort.

"Sae!"

"You'll scare it away," he says.

"The seagull."

"The tern," he corrects.

"Fine. The tern. The tern that is eating my fries that I would like to rescue."

He squeezes at your hip. "I'm comfortable."

"My fries, Sae."

"I'll buy you more later."

He's warm, and his hand is solid and real on your hip, and the tern is halfway through your limp fries. You settle back down into the curve of him.