Lovely

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.