Frank’s been mulling the decision over for minutes now; his head in hands, bouncing his knee, muttering to himself. When he finally comes to it, he calls you over.
“Yeah?” You call back, padding to the living room couch from where you were in the bathroom. You're softened up with lotion and clad in a cotton-soft set he got you on a whim, hair still damp from your shower. The sight makes his heart thud harder than a drum.
He pats the cushion next to him. “Would you c’mere for a sec? I got something for you.”
Curious, you round the couch and place yourself exactly where he said, tucking your legs underneath you. “What's it?”
He clenches his jaw before fishing in his pocket for a second. He holds out his palm, and in it there's two small charms attached to a chain; his dog tags from the Marines.
You look up at him, confused. He keeps his gaze down on his hand before grabbing yours and pressing the tags into your palm.
You swipe over the engravings with your thumb, feeling for his name. The weight of the sentiment isn't lost on you. “Frank?”
He swallows, and you’ve never seen him so boyish before, not in all your time together. “Want you to have them,” he mumbles.
You lean closer, holding the tags tight. “But they're yours. You always wear them.”
Frank shakes his head. “I’m yours. I want you to have them.”
You know better than to fight him, and you know this is more intimate than an I love you from Frank. He's giving you a piece of his past, hoping you'll keep it safe with the other parts of him.
“Okay,” you whisper, bringing your forehead to his. His hand wraps around your nape, pulling you closer and into his neck. “Thank you, Frank.”
You feel a kiss on your hairline, and he makes a mental note to himself: a ring next time.
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