#evans

There’s a moment, every single morning, when I wake up and realise I’m not alone. Not because of the warmth in the bed or the faint scent of cologne still clinging to the pillow. But because of his arms.

Strong, solid, and always wrapped around me.

I don’t know exactly when it started that need to be tangled up with him. I used to be a sprawled-out, limbs-everywhere kind of sleeper. But with Chris, it’s like my body learned that the best place it could possibly be… was held tight in his arms.

This morning is no different.

I blink slowly, sunlight creeping through the curtains, and I feel it first his arm, heavy across my waist, hand resting gently on my stomach. His thumb moves, the softest stroke against my skin, and I know he’s awake.

“Morning,” I mumble, my voice still scratchy with sleep.

He shifts behind me, pressing a kiss just beneath my ear. “Morning, sweetheart.”

God, that voice. The way it rumbles through my back when he’s this close. I smile into the pillow.

“Comfortable?” he asks, amused.

I nod, pressing my hand over his forearm. “I’m always comfortable with you.”

His arms have always been my favourite place. Not just in bed, but everywhere. There’s something so grounding about them whether we’re walking down the street or curled up on the sofa or sat at some fancy event. It’s like the moment I hold onto his arm, everything else melts away.

And he never complains. In fact, I think he loves it.

Later that morning, we head out for brunch. Nothing fancy, just a little café around the corner with strong coffee and the fluffiest pancakes I’ve ever tasted.

Chris drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. I reach across and slip my fingers around his forearm. He glances over briefly, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You do realise you hold onto me like I might float away, right?” he teases, voice soft.

“Maybe I’m just making sure I don’t float away,” I reply, giving him a mock-serious look.

He laughs quietly, and with one hand still on the wheel, he lifts his other just enough to lace his fingers with mine.

“You’re not going anywhere. Not if I can help it.”

At the café, we slide into a corner booth and I sit beside him not across from him, like normal people might but right next to him so I can tuck myself into his side. I rest my hand on his arm while we wait for our food, tracing slow lines over the fabric of his sleeve.

He doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, halfway through talking about something his brother said the other day, he pauses to tilt his head toward mine.

“Comfy?”

“Mmm.”

He smiles. “You’re like a sleepy little koala sometimes, you know that?”

“I’ll take it as a compliment.”

He chuckles, leans in, and presses a kiss to my temple. “You should.”

The thing is, Chris is a solid person. Not just physically though, yes, his arms are distracting in the best way possible but emotionally. He’s… constant. Safe. When the world gets too loud or work gets too overwhelming or my own thoughts spiral into something sharp and tangled, I always find myself gravitating toward him.

And I think he knows that.

Sometimes he doesn’t say a word he just opens his arms like he’s been waiting all day to hold me.

Once, after a particularly rubbish meeting that had me doubting everything, I came home and found him on the sofa, reading. I didn’t say anything I just walked over, curled into his side, and held onto his arm like it was the only thing keeping me upright.

He didn’t ask what was wrong. He just kissed the top of my head and held me until I could breathe again.

Later that day, after brunch and a quiet stroll through the park where, yes, I clung to his arm the whole time we stop at a bookshop. Chris lets go of my hand to look at some vintage travel books, and for a second, I feel oddly untethered.

I wander around a bit, fingers trailing over spines, but my eyes keep flicking back to him. He’s crouched down, brows furrowed in thought, arms flexed ever so slightly as he flips through pages.

I don’t even try to resist. I walk over and wrap my arm around one of his from behind, resting my chin on his shoulder.

“Find anything good?” I murmur.

He grins. “Only the best travel tips from 1973.”

I giggle into his jumper, nuzzling a little closer. “Sounds promising.”

He turns his head just enough to kiss my cheek. “You okay?”

“Now I am.”

That night, we stay in. Chinese takeaway, a bottle of wine, and some film Chris has already seen three times but insists I’ll love.

We curl up on the sofa, and before the opening credits even finish, I’ve tucked my feet beneath me and wrapped my arms around his once more.

He shifts slightly, pulling me closer until my head’s against his chest and his arm is around me properly. His fingers start drawing slow circles on my arm like he knows how to soothe me without a word.

“You’re clingy tonight,” he says gently, not unkindly.

“I know. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He tilts my chin up so I have to look at him. “I like when you hold onto me.”

My throat tightens a bit. “Yeah?”

He nods. “Makes me feel… needed. Like I get to be your safe place too.”

“You are.”

There’s a pause. The quiet hum of the TV in the background. And then he says, almost like he’s been holding it in all day:

“You can always hold onto me, love. As much as you want. As long as you need.”

Later, when I’m half-asleep in his arms again, I feel him adjust slightly, tucking the blanket around me, brushing a kiss across my forehead.

“You know,” he murmurs against my skin, “I used to think strength meant standing tall. Being the one holding everyone else up.”

I blink sleepily. “You are.”

He smiles. “Maybe. But now I think strength can also look like this. Like quiet moments. Like knowing someone trusts you enough to fall asleep on your arm.”