Lovely

You hear his keys hit the bowl in the entry, then nothing — and you know, you know, he’s standing back there doing the thing he does, taking the whole room in before he says a word to it. The TV’s on something you stopped following twenty minutes ago. There’s a glass of water sweating a ring into the coffee table and his tin sitting open right beside it, lid off, grinder out, the whole scene about as subtle as a crime.

Footsteps. He comes around the back of the couch and stops, and you tip your head back against the cushion to look at him upside down — and lose it. Caught, giggling before you can stop yourself, hand coming up too late to do anything about it.

“Hi,” you manage.

Joe looks at the tin. Looks at you. The laugh’s already in his voice when he drags a hand down over his jaw.

“So this is what I come home to.”

He toes his shoes off where he stands, nudges them toward the wall, and comes around the front of the couch. Picks up the tin. Tilts it toward the lamp to see how much you’ve gotten into without him, and the look he gives you over the top of it could not be drier.

“You didn’t even text me.”

“You were working,” you say, like that’s reason enough.

He doesn’t dignify it. Taps the lid back half-on, sets the tin down, and drops onto the cushion beside you — close, so you have to fold your knees up over his thigh to make room. His hand lands on your shin like it lives there.

“Scoot.”

“I am scooted.”

“You’re sprawled.”

You giggle again and he reaches for the grinder, slow about it, like the whole evening just got rearranged and he intends to take his time. You walk your fingers up his forearm while he works, smug as anything.

“That was good,” you tell him.

“Babe.” He doesn’t look up from the grinder. “I don’t buy mid.”

By the time he's caught up the room's gone soft at the edges and so has he. Sunk low into the couch, head tipped back, one arm slung along the cushion behind you, the other hand still wrapped loose around your ankle.

You're not doing anything with your hands. That's a lie. Your hands have ideas — the hem of his sleeve, the line of his collarbone through his shirt, the spot under his jaw where his pulse is. He lets you. Eyes half-lidded, watching you do it.

“You’re being weird,” he says, no heat in it.

“I’m being affectionate.”

“You’re being weird and affectionate.”

You press your palm flat to his chest just to feel him breathe, and he goes quiet under it. When you look up, his eyes are already on you, and they’re not lazy anymore.

His hand leaves your ankle. Travels up. Stops at the back of your knee.

"C'mere," he says, lower now.

You come. Knees planted on either side of his thighs, you settle your weight and feel exactly how hard he is through his sweats. The sound he makes is low, almost a growl. Both hands slide under your shirt — one spreads wide at the small of your back, the other fists in your hair and tips your mouth down to his.

He kisses you slowly. Tongue, teeth, the faint taste of weed still on him. You rock against his lap, and his grip tightens, fingers digging into your hip like he's deciding whether to let you keep control.

"You started the night without me," he murmurs against your lips. "Figure you owe me."

"That how it works?"

His laugh is rough. "That's how it works."

His hands find the waistband of your shorts. You lift up just enough for him to drag them down your thighs along with your underwear. Cool air hits your skin for half a second before his palm is back between your legs, two fingers sliding through how wet you already are. He curses under his breath, presses them inside you once, slow and deep, then pulls them out and brings them to his mouth.

You're the one who gets his sweats down. He's heavy in your hand, hot, the head already slick. You line him up and sink down in one slow glide. The stretch pulls a broken sound out of you. His head drops back against the couch, jaw tight, one hand locked on your hip to keep you right there while he throbs inside you.

You move. Lazy rolls at first, grinding deep, letting the haze stretch every second. He watches you — eyes heavy, lips parted — thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight little circles that make your thighs shake. Every time you take him all the way, his fingers flex harder.

When you start to lose rhythm, he takes over. Arm banded around your waist, he fucks up into you with these slow, filthy thrusts that punch the breath out of your lungs. His mouth is at your neck, sucking a mark you'll feel tomorrow. "Right there, baby. Fuck."

You come hard, clenching around him, forehead pressed to his as his name fractures in your mouth. He follows right after — hips snapping up once, twice, burying himself deep, both arms locking around you. The groan he lets out vibrates against your skin, low and open-mouthed.

After, you stay exactly like that. Still joined, boneless and sticky, his heart hammering under your cheek before it starts to slow. He's still half-hard inside you, twitching every so often with the aftershocks. His hand runs up and down your spine, fingertips dragging lazy lines over your skin. The room smells like weed and sex and the blanket he eventually drags over your bare ass.

You don't move yet. You listen. His breathing is there, but it's shallow. Not asleep. Awake and quiet.

The clock on the nightstand says 3:47.

You lie there for another second, just letting yourself land — the soreness low in your hips, the way your legs are still tangled with his, the smell of him on the pillow under your cheek. His thumb moves once against your side. Small. Like he was waiting to see if you were up.

"You up?"

His voice is low. Rough from sleep or from not sleeping.

"Mhm."

He shifts behind you. The arm across your waist tightens for a second, then loosens.

"How long you been awake?"

"Just now. You?"

"A while."

You turn over to see him. He's on his side, head propped on his hand, hair a mess. In the bathroom light, you can just make out his face — the shadow of it, the way he's looking at you.

"You want water?"

"Yeah."

He gets up. You watch him cross the room — sweatpants slung low, bare back, that easy way he moves even at almost four in the morning. He comes back with a glass and hands it to you first. You sit up on one elbow to drink. He waits until you're done, takes it from you, drinks the rest himself, and sets it on the nightstand.

Then he doesn't get back in bed right away. He sits on the edge, facing you, one hand on your hip through the sheet.

"Look at me a second."

You do. His thumb moves against your hip bone.

"You good?"

"Yeah," you say. Then, because he asked like he meant it: "A little sore."

His mouth twitches — not quite a smile, but close enough that the corner of his eye crinkles.

"Where?"

"Just — everywhere. In a good way."

"You sure it's a good sore, or should I get you something?"

"Good sore, I promise."

"Okay."

He's still watching you, thumb resting against your hip bone. You wait him out.

"The way I was talking to you," he says, quieter now. "That was okay?"

You reach up and wrap your fingers around his wrist where it rests on you.

"It was more than okay."

"Yeah?"

"Joe."

"I know," he says, quieter now. "Some of the stuff I said — I need to know you heard it the way I meant it."

"How did you mean it?"

"Like I was fucking crazy about you. Like you were doing something to me." His eyes stay on yours. "Not — the other thing."

"What's the other thing?"

"Like I actually thought less of you." His voice drops even lower. "I didn't. I don't. I never would."

You squeeze his wrist.

"I know. That's why it worked."

He nods once, slow, like he's filing it away properly this time. His hand slides from your hip up under the sheet, palm flat and warm against your ribs.

You shift onto your elbow so you're closer to his level.

"Was that a lot for you too?"

His eyes lift to yours.

"What do you mean?"

"You. All of that. Was that — was that a lot for you too?"

He doesn't answer right away. He just looks at you, and the silence stretches long enough for you to know he's choosing the real answer over the easy one.

"Yeah," he says finally. "It was a lot."

"Talk to me."

He exhales through his nose, not frustrated — just making space. His palm stays heavy on your ribs.

"I love you a lot," he says. Simple. Like it's a fact he's stating for the record. "So when I get to have you like that... when you let me... it's a lot. In a good way. But it's still a lot. I feel it after."

"Feel it how?"

"Just — I need to know you're okay. Not just physically." His fingers press once against your side. "All of it. I couldn't come down until I knew."

You feel that one all the way down.

Your hand slides up his forearm, over his elbow, to his shoulder. You give it a small tug.

"Come here."

He gets back in bed. This time he faces you. He shifts down against the pillow so you're level, and pulls you in until your forehead is against his, his arm around your waist under the sheet, hand splayed low on your back.

For a second, neither of you says anything. You can feel his breath on your mouth.

"You're okay," he says. Not a question this time.

"I'm okay."

"Good."

His nose brushes yours. He kisses you — slow, closed-mouth, nothing behind it but the point of the kiss itself.

"You were so fucking good tonight," he says against your lips.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, baby. All of it. The way you were with me. What you let me do. How you were talking to me back." His hand moves once, slow, low on your back. "I don't take any of that for granted. I want you to know that."

"I know."

"I mean it."

"I know, Joe."

You tilt your head back enough to see him. His eyes are already on you. In the low light from the bathroom, his face is soft in a way you don't get to see when the sun is up.

"You made me feel safe," you say. "The whole time. Even the rough parts. Especially the rough parts, I think. That's what I want you to hear."

His hand stops moving on your back.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I never once thought about anything but you. I wasn't in my head. I wasn't worried about how I looked. I was just with you. That's never happened with anybody else."

He doesn't say anything for a second. His forehead presses harder against yours.

"That's the best thing you could have told me."

You feel your throat go tight for no reason. You swallow it.

"I love you."

"I love you."

You lie there for another minute like that. His hand starts moving again on your back, slow passes, the way it was when you fell asleep the first time. You can feel yourself starting to go.

Then he says, very quiet:

"For the record. I'm the sore one."

You laugh into his neck.

"Are you serious?"

"My back is fucked up. You were really going."

"Joseph Lee!"

"I'm just telling you. For the record."

"Oh my God, do you need something?"

"I need to sleep for eight hours."

You settle back in against him. He shifts until you're tucked under his chin, one of his legs between yours, his hand still low on your back.

"Sleep, baby."

"You first."

"No."

"Joe."

"I want to know you got there."

You close your eyes. His hand keeps moving, slow, and you can feel his breathing start to even out against the top of your head even though he said he'd stay up.

He doesn't make it.

You listen to it happen — the slow drag of his breath getting deeper, his hand going still on your back, the small twitch when he goes under. He gives you a soft, sleepy exhale into your hair. His arm gets heavy.

You open your eyes.

The strip of light is still there under the bathroom door. The clock says 4:03. You can just make out the shape of his jaw above you, tipped down, mouth a little open.

You close your eyes again. His hand is warm on your back.