#husbend!roman

Husband!Roman who secretly loves the way people look confused when they find out you’re married to him.

Husband!Roman who hates how naturally sexy you are, because he knows you’re not even trying, and yet everyone notices — and yeah, it drives him crazy sometimes.

Husband!Roman who gets jealous even when nothing’s happening, overanalyzing every look, every laugh, every interaction — and half the time, it ends in a fight.

Husband!Roman who starts arguments over imaginary scenarios.

Husband!Roman who covers up his insecurity by showing you off like a trophy, even if he’ll never admit that’s what he’s doing.

Husband!Roman who gets triggered by the way your silk blouses dip low enough to hint, not show, or how your tailored pants sit perfectly on your hips; he’ll roll his eyes and call it “predictable,” but the way his jaw tightens gives him away.

Husband!Roman who loves that you never need him for money, power, or status — it forces him to believe you’re with him because you actually want to be.

Husband!Roman who loves when you wear silk, low backs, open necklines — he wants you to be admired, but only as long as everyone knows they can’t have you.

Husband!Roman who still can’t figure out how the hell he ended up with you — and he knows everyone else is wondering the same thing.

Husband!Roman who always notices the small, expensive, intentional choices — the silk straps sliding down your shoulder, the sheer tights beneath your skirt, the faint trace of perfume that lingers on his hands after; he pretends indifference, but his obsession shows in the way he touches you later.

Husband!Roman who thrives on the fact that you get him, that you can keep up with his chaos without trying to fix him.

Husband!Roman who finds your subtlety maddening — you don’t need to be loud to command attention, and that quiet power pulls him in every time.

Husband!Roman who feels both threatened and turned on by how independent you are; it’s infuriating, intoxicating, addictive.

Husband!Roman who watches you at events more than he listens to anyone else — your posture, your subtle expressions, the way you handle conversations like you own the room without even trying.

Husband!Roman who acts like he doesn’t care about your family’s wealth, but deep down, it messes with his head more than he’ll ever admit.

Husband!Roman who loves it when you tease him with sarcasm, especially in public, because it’s thrilling to see someone match his energy — but inside, he’s burning with desire and pride.

Husband!Roman who enjoys when you take control in private — pushing boundaries, making bold moves — because it forces him to surrender in ways he secretly craves.

Husband!Roman who can’t resist small gestures of intimacy: the brush of your hand, a lean close in a crowded room, a whispered joke at the table…

Husband!Roman who loves how you know exactly when to get on your knees, when he’s riding the high of winning a fight against Kendall, closing a deal, or shutting someone down — when his arrogance makes him unbearable and you make it worse on purpose.

Husband!Roman who hates admitting how much he obsesses over you, but he notices every look, every movement, every subtle shift in your energy.

Husband!Roman who turns arguments into tension-laden moments where the air practically sizzles — he’s testing limits, and every sharp word is also an unspoken lure.

Husband!Roman who gets frustrated when you’re confident around others — part jealousy, part awe.

Husband!Roman who sometimes initiates physical closeness in public in ways that seem casual, but are loaded with ownership and desire — a hand on your lower back, a finger tracing your arm.

Husband!Roman who pretends he’s in charge, but you figured out a long time ago that all it takes is one subtle shift — one tilt of your hips, one order whispered low — and he unravels, letting you break him without ever saying that’s what’s happening.

Husband!Roman who thrives on the chaos, on the mess of it — bruises blooming where your legs lock around his waist, teeth against skin.

Husband!Roman who hates vulnerability, but when he’s with you behind closed doors, he lets it leak through — small confessions, touches that linger, and the rare quiet admissions of need.

Husband!Roman who gets obsessive when he imagines other people noticing your appeal and he reacts in ways that are sometimes ridiculous.

Husband!Roman who pretends he’s in control in public, but in private, he’s complete undone by the smallest hints that you could leave him, ignore him, or outsmart him.

Husband!Roman who finds himself more turned on than he wants to admit when you’re pissed at him. The clipped tone, the pointed sarcasm, the way you look at him like you might walk away; it messes with his head in ways he doesn’t want to think about.

Husband!Roman who carries that tension into every fight, every jealous spiral, every mocking joke, because half the time, the sex isn’t about wanting, it’s about winning.

Husband!Roman who loses it completely when your heels into his back while his mouth is on you, grinding against the sheets without realizing he’s doing it.

Husband!Roman who is obsessed with the sounds you make — sharp, uneven, raw — the kind that get stuck in his head long after it’s over.

Husband!Roman who loves to see you on your knees for him when he has his hand in your hair - he has the biggest ego in the world whenever he has you like that.

Husband!Roman who sometimes isolates you in a quiet corner during events just to hold you, kiss you, or whisper something that makes you shiver — but he’ll act casual about it to everyone else.

Husband!Roman knows you could have had someone richer, calmer, easier — and instead, you chose him, and that thought both terrifies and anchors him.

Husband!Roman who lets you have him when he’s spiraling, when the insecurity eats at him.

Husband!Roman who but when his ego’s on fire, when he’s high on himself and untouchable, he’ll take it back — rough hands, sharp grip, pushing until you’re gasping for him.

Husband! Roman who finds himself addicted to the contrast: you destroying him and, in the next instant, choking on his ego.

Husband!Roman who has days where the control flips back and forth so fast it’s dizzying — your dominance feeding his submission, his roughness pulling yours out in return, until neither of you knows who’s undoing who.

A/N: Yes, maybe I'm a little obsessed with him... What? You're the one who married him, don't blame me.

I hope you enjoyed it anyway!

Summary: Even though you’re married to Roman, you’re not as cynical as the rest of the Roys. Some people tend to take that the wrong way, and Roman sometimes lets more slip than he should. In the end, it doesn’t really matter — he’s the one who goes home to you. Warnings: Roman Roy x fem!reader, Cute? I don't know, I think it's even romantic. - Word count: 4.5k

A/N: Remembering that my first language is not English, so there may be some errors due to the translation. I hope you like it!!

If someone forced him to say when he started, Greg would probably stutter, trying to get an answer that sounded reasonable. The truth is that he wouldn't know.

Maybe it had been on one of those long nights, after a family dinner or a trip with the group, when the silence of his apartment seemed too great and the body was looking for distractions.

First came your perfume and the way it remained even after you passed by. It was a small memory, almost banal, but it began to repeat itself until it became a habit.

In the beginning, he thought that was all it was: desire — simple and shameful. He thought of you when he needed to shake off the weight of the day, when he needed something tangible to replace the anxiety. He believed it was purely physical, the kind of thing that meant nothing, that could be dealt with in minutes.

But over time, that thought stopped being a release and became a presence.

You were never exactly kind to him.

The difference was that you didn’t treat him like the other Roys did. You didn’t ignore him, didn’t use him as a direct punchline. You spoke to him as if you were speaking to someone who existed — and sometimes, that was enough. Greg mistook that absence of contempt for interest, or maybe for kindness.

He liked to imagine that you understood him, even though he knew that was unlikely.

It was strange how, in his mind, you seemed out of place among the Roys — like someone who thought before speaking. And for a long time, that’s why he believed you didn’t fit with Roman.

But all it took was seeing you two together for everything Greg imagined to fall apart.

Roman had a way of inserting himself into every conversation, of turning everything into a show — and the worst part was, when you were around him, you seemed to play along. It wasn’t the same laughter you gave to others; it was sharper, almost complicit, and that irritated Greg deeply.

It was as if Roman lit up a side of you that no one else could see — the sarcasm, the teasing that seemed to hum when he was near.

Greg hated that.

He hated how comfortable you seemed in the chaos Roman created, how he made you different — alive.

Now, fully aware of it, Greg tries to bury the feeling deep enough that it never surfaces, but of course, he’s terrible at it.

Roman noticed first — the way someone notices a random detail.

There was no epiphany, no flash of jealousy — at least not the kind he’d recognize as such.

It was just Greg. Greg, with that wet-puppy look, always on the sidelines, always eager to please.

But there was something different in the way he looked at you. It wasn’t just interest or curiosity. It was something almost… reverent.

And that irritated Roman in a way he couldn’t name.

At the dinner at Logan’s house — that’s when he really noticed.

Greg sat a little apart, pretending to look at his phone, his eyes on you for too long.

Roman gave half a smile — that crooked one, the one that always came before a joke that would make someone uncomfortable.

But he didn’t say anything — not yet.

The irritation turned into a kind of inner spark, growing every time Greg got too close, every time you answered him with anything other than disdain.

Roman told himself it was just funny. That Greg was an idiot, and that enjoying that was part of the fun.

And of course, there was no better way to turn discomfort into a performance — he started touching you more, first out of boredom, then out of habit.

A hand on your waist during family meetings, his arm over the back of your chair when you spoke, the light touch on your back when passing someone. All gestures that seemed casual but carried a subtext of insecurity and self-assertion he would never allow himself to examine.

For Roman, it was just a reminder: you’re his wife.

But deep down, he knew there was something more.

Roman never really believed he deserved anything — not love or loyalty, much less someone like you.

So when Greg looked at you that way, it was like staring into a warped mirror: he saw desire, but also everything he didn’t know how to give.

And that’s how the performance began.

Roman used you as both answer and disguise, and you — who knew him well enough to understand what lay behind it — let him.

It was almost a silent agreement between the two of you, one you didn’t mind taking part in.

After all, being that figure for him meant Roman needed you — and that, to you, was more important than mere passion or desire.

It was almost comforting, that kind of quiet power. Even when he left in the morning without saying where he was going, you knew he’d come back — because Roman always came back.

That day, though, he was still at Waystar.

The windows in Kendall’s office let in a dull gray of late afternoon; the conversation had drifted from its main focus when Kendall picked it up again, impatient.

— Right, focus — he said. — The issue’s simple: someone needs to go to that damn storage site and make sure the cruise documents disappear.

Shiv huffed, leaning forward.

— Oh, great. Are we drawing names to see who destroys the evidence?

Karl tried a nervous laugh, but Roman was already spinning a pen between his fingers, half bored.

— Send Greg. — he muttered. — He looks like the kind of guy who’s deleted the wrong files before.

Greg straightened in his chair, swallowing hard.

— What? No… I mean, maybe it’d make more sense for someone… closer to the family to handle it, you know? Would raise fewer suspicions. — He gestured awkwardly. — Like… Roman, maybe.

Roman looked up quickly, that crooked smile appearing before the words.

— Oh. — he made a short sound, almost a laugh. — You think I’m gonna get my hands dirty to save your ass?

Shiv crossed her arms.

— Well, it wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Roman turned to her, offended, then looked back at Greg.

— Sure. And since we’re handing out assignments, wanna go ahead and fuck my wife while I’m gone? Seems fair. In case I get arrested for all this shit.

Tom cleared his throat, uncomfortable; Gerri looked away; Kendall let out a dry laugh.

Greg went red, stumbling over his words.

— What? No, I— I’d never…

— Relax, cousin. — Roman cut him off with that same crooked smile. — I’m just saying you’ve been looking a little too long at what you can’t touch.

Shiv let out a quiet “oh my God,” rolling her eyes.

— Roman, don’t— Jesus, fuck this. — Kendall said, and Roman raised his hands, still laughing.

Kendall leaned his elbow on the table, exhaling a tired sigh.

— Okay, enough. This is turning into a mess. — He pointed at Tom. — You’re going.

Tom blinked, confused.

— What? Me?

— Yeah, you. — Kendall said as if it were obvious. — Dad hires people like you so the family doesn’t have to get their hands dirty.

Roman clapped softly.

— Excellent. Our corporate martyr. It’ll look great in the autobiography.

Shiv turned to him, annoyed.

— Go fuck yourself, Kendall. Tom’s family.

Roman stifled a laugh.

— In that case, you can go instead, right? — he said, with a falsely curious look, gesturing with his hand.

Shiv went silent. Roman raised his eyebrows and smiled again.

— That’s what I thought.

Roman’s phone buzzed on the table. The name on the screen was yours.

He looked at it for a second — the corner of his mouth lifting in a quick, almost automatic smile.

Greg noticed.

Roman leaned back in his chair, tapped the pen twice against the table, then stood up.

— Okay, carry on with your little moral crisis club. I’ve got… — he made a vague motion with his hand — …grown-up business to take care of.

As he passed behind Greg’s chair, Roman gave him two “friendly” pats on the shoulder — too firm to be kind, too slow to seem casual.

Greg swallowed hard, his body stiff under the touch.

Across the table, Kendall let out a short, muffled laugh — the kind that didn’t come from humor, but recognition.

Roman didn’t look back. He shoved his hands into his pockets and left, the sound of his steps echoing down the hallway.

Greg stayed still, feeling the lingering weight of those pats on his shoulder, the echo of Kendall’s laugh, and in the glass reflection ahead, the blurred outline of Roman walking away — and his own face, caught between shame and something he couldn’t yet name.

Either way, in the hours that followed, that scene had already started to fade from Roman’s mind. Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

As the elevator climbed to the top floor, the sense of control he’d pretended to have was slowly giving way to a quiet unease — a steady hum that had followed him since the meeting.

The doors opened with a metallic sound, and the elevator’s cold light spilled into the dimness of the apartment.

You always preferred the place like that — half in shadow, calm, almost untouched. It was the kind of thing Roman pretended to find odd, but in truth, it made him think of you every time.

He stepped in slowly, the sound of his shoes echoing softly, just like the hiss of the elevator doors closing behind him. His jacket landed on the couch with an automatic motion, and he stopped in front of the glass wall, trying to see through the mist covering New York. The city lights seemed distant, blurred, as if someone had turned them off on purpose.

Roman ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath, and his reflection in the glass stared back at him.

From the bedroom, you heard the elevator. You weren’t asleep.

You waited in silence. The sound of the jacket hitting the couch and his distant sigh were the signal that the house’s silence had ended.

Roman, on the other hand, heard when the bedroom door opened and knew — even before he looked — that you’d appear there.

It was always the same: it started with the soft sound of your steps, the barely audible drag of bare feet on the cold floor, the faint rustle of fabric.

The black slip was far too thin for winter; the fabric traced the shape of your body in a way that felt careless but exact.

You leaned against the doorframe, your face half in shadow, the streetlight drawing a silver line down your legs.

— Should I be worried you’re cheating on me with prostitutes now? — you said, unhurried.

Roman let out a short, soundless laugh through his nose.

He’d expected the provocation. It always came first — like a password.

To anyone else, it might have sounded like irritation, but Roman knew better: it was the way you welcomed him.

And that’s exactly why he moved closer to the couch and dropped onto it, his eyes still on you.

— Good to know you still care — he murmured, voice lazy.

You gave a soft laugh and started walking slowly, your steps nearly silent against the cold floor. You passed behind him, your fingertips brushing over his shoulders for a second longer than necessary.

— Rough day? — you asked, your voice low, almost languid, as you made your way toward the bar.

Roman let out a short sound, something between a sigh and a unwilling laugh - the kind of answer he gave when he didn't want to admit anything.

His jacket was still thrown on the couch, and the loose tie knot left the collar open, the neck exposed. He leaned his arm against the backrest, turning his body a little so he could follow you with his eyes.

You leaned slightly over the bar, taking the bottle, pouring two glasses. The sweater moved with the gesture, the fabric rising just enough to show the contour of the thigh, and Roman noticed the detail before he even wanted to.

He made another sound, low and half guttural, the kind that disguised thought.

He chose not to answer your question; watching you was far more interesting than explaining his day.

You came back holding both glasses, the soft sound of your steps echoing through the silent apartment. The light from the window mixed with the shadows, outlining your silhouette and the natural sway of your hips. Roman watched you openly.

When you approached the sofa, he straightened his body in a distracted way, his arm still thrown on the backrest.

You handed him the glass.

— Here. — that was all you said.

Your fingers brushed for a moment, and the ice clinked softly against the glass.

You turned to face him, crossing one leg over the other. The movement was slow enough for him to notice, or maybe he was just paying too much attention.

The sound of the fabric brushing filled the silence for a moment.

You took a sip, your eyes still fixed on his.

- Shiv told me that Tom was responsible for all the shit - you said, your voice almost lazy.

Roman arched his eyebrows, a short laugh escaping before the sip of whiskey.

- Are you friends now? - he asked, tilting the glass. - Since when does she tell you these things?

You laughed through your nose, touching the glass to the table behind the sofa, the sound of the glass against the wood marking the compass of provocation.

Roman followed the gesture, his gaze going down fast before returning to his face.

As you leaned closer, your perfume seemed to mix with the scent of alcohol.

Your fingers found the fabric of his tie, untying the knot slowly. Roman went still, as if any movement might break the moment.

— She knew you’d tell me — you murmured, a faint smile on your lips. — She asked if I could help.

Roman tilted his head slightly, watching his fingers working on the fabric.

— And how exactly were you going to help? — he asked, voice low, drawling, more curious than mocking.

You lifted your gaze without stopping, that faintly condescending smile tugging at your mouth.

— She asked if my family knew someone… who knows how to handle things like that.

Roman gave a short, dry laugh.

- Like destroying evidence?

- Like not leaving traces - you replied, laughing softly with him, though there was weight behind the sound.

You turned the tie between your fingers, freeing it completely but not pulling your hand away.

— And you really think sending Tom was a good idea? — you asked, tone too casual to be innocent. — Because honestly, he’ll probably dump this shit on Greg. And, let’s face it… Greg’s not exactly the brains of the operation.

Roman let out a short laugh, tilting his head.

— How sweet, worrying about Greg.

— I’m not worrying. — you laughed with him. — I just don’t want that mess spilling onto you.

Roman turned his face in his direction, half suspicious, half amused.

- Earlier I told him that if he wanted he could take advantage and eat you in case I was arrested. - His smile grew, twisted.

You laughed a little loudly, tilting your head a little and resting your elbow on the back of the sofa.

- You're an idiot. - he said between laughs.

Roman didn't answer right away.

He just sat there, staring at his glass as if the liquid inside were more interesting than the conversation. A faint, fleeting smile tugged at his mouth.

The sound of your laugh lingered between you, hanging in the air until it faded into the apartment’s silence. He swirled his glass slowly, the ice knocking against the sides. There was something different in him — a quiet tension.

You watched for a moment, then leaned in slowly, resting your head on his shoulder. His body tensed at first but didn’t move away. The arm that had been resting on the couch slipped down, his hand stopping on your back, then your hip.

The warmth of his skin bled through the thin fabric, and the air between you seemed to thicken. You took a deep breath, close enough to catch his scent — a mix of whiskey and cologne.

Your arm slid around his torso, a light touch, almost distracted, but firm enough to feel the muscle beneath his shirt. Your legs brushed against his, and Roman let out a sigh that sounded almost like a stifled laugh.

He turned his head slightly, just enough for his nose to brush your hair.

— Another person who would be happy if I was arrested would be your parents — he murmured, that half-smile never quite reaching his voice.

You laughed softly, muffled.

— Yeah, they’d love being right about you.

— I can already see your mom, all smug, saying “I told you, darling, Romulus was never serious.” — He mimicked her overly posh accent with theatrical flair.

You couldn’t help it — you laughed louder this time. He felt your warm breath against his neck, and for a moment, he forgot why you were even talking. The smile that escaped him was almost childish, proud.

You pulled back a little, meeting his eyes again. The laughter faded slowly, leaving a soft quiet between you.

His hand was still on your back, but it moved upward, the touch firm yet unfocused, until it reached your hair. A strand fell across your shoulder and he brushed it aside, his fingers grazing your skin.

You lifted your face. Roman looked at you — quickly, almost reluctantly, but didn’t look away. His gaze got caught between your lips and the thin chain around your neck, the one he’d seen a thousand times yet somehow felt new.

You smiled faintly, the corner of your mouth trembling.

— What?

Roman blinked slowly, looking away as if reminding himself what was safe to say. The smile returned, crooked, with something unspoken behind it.

— Nothing… — he murmured, almost laughing at his own discomfort.

But the laugh died halfway through. The silence that followed was thick, warm.

His hand moved again; his fingers brushed the bare skin at the back of your neck. You breathed in, without meaning to, and the sound made him look up.

Roman watched you for a moment — his face still, but his eyes burning. They trailed from your face to your neck, then to that same golden chain. His thumb followed the same path, slow, absentminded, tracing the thin metal line.

You smiled faintly, but your eyes were different this time.

Roman recognized that look every time he saw it. Even in the dim light of the room, your eyes seemed to pull him under, like a lake he couldn’t stop sinking into. And precisely because he stared too long, his body gave in.

His glass was forgotten on the table — and so was yours. He leaned in, the air between you already too thin.

You lifted a hand to his face — the touch was soft, but the effect immediate. His gaze rose from your lips to your eyes and stayed there for a split second before you kissed him.

His hands reacted before he did — one gripping the back of your neck, the other your thigh, pulling you closer. You felt his quiet laugh against your mouth, mingling with the sound of short breaths.

The world seemed to hold still there: the touch, the taste, the scent. When he pulled back just enough to breathe, his face still close to yours, that small, dangerous smile appeared.

— You waited up for this? — he asked, voice rough and rasped.

You didn’t answer. You just kissed him again — this time, deeper.

Roman laughed softly into the kiss, a low sound, almost a groan, and pulled you onto his lap. The motion broke the rhythm only long enough for you to smile against each other’s lips before falling back into it.

His hands were everywhere, without aim. Every touch drew a sound or a breath from you, and he seemed to feed on it.

His mouth found your neck, hot and fast, while you tugged his shirt free from his pants and belt — your fingers fumbling with the buttons as he laughed lightly against your skin, amused by the chaos you were creating.

You answered with a breath that made him bite gently just below your ear — a quick, impulsive gesture. His breath was hot against your neck when something different began to vibrate on the coffee table — the muffled sound of a phone between the forgotten glasses.

Roman ignored it. Pretended not to hear.

But the vibration persisted, slicing through the heavy air, making a glass tremble faintly. You noticed when he froze for a second, jaw tight, eyes still on you.

He tried to ignore it, and you held him there — your hands framing his face, your body still pressed to his.

— Hey... — you murmured, voice low, almost pleading. — Stay with me.

Roman gave a short, humorless laugh, his eyes opening and closing slowly as if pushing the world away.

But then the sound changed — the long buzz of an incoming call cut through the air, and he groaned.

— Oh, fuck... — he muttered, leaning forward to grab the phone. The screen’s glow lit the space between you.

The name Logan flashed in clear letters.

His breathing was still uneven, his chest rising and falling fast beneath his half-open shirt.

You placed your hands on his neck, feeling the quick pulse beneath your fingers.

— Don’t answer — you whispered, your face close to his. — You don’t have to.

He stared at the screen for a moment, his thumb hovering over it.

The call ended. Then came the messages — several of them.

He let out a bitter laugh, almost just a breath.

— Yeah, sure... like that’s gonna fix anything. — His voice came out hoarse, rough, almost mocking.

You smiled faintly, pulling his face closer, your eyes on his.

— If you don’t answer, it’ll just look like you’re asleep. — you said softly, then kissed him slowly.

The kiss drew a heavy sigh from him — a brief, frustrated surrender. When he pulled back, Roman kept his eyes on you for a second before muttering under his breath:

— Even if I wanted to... I can’t. I just left the old man’s place, remember? He’ll know.

You sighed, resigned, and pulled away, your fingers sliding from his neck.

— It’s fine. — you said quietly, fixing your clothes as you stood.

Roman was still staring at the phone, his father’s name lighting the screen again.

You walked around the couch and, as you passed behind him, leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to the side of his neck.

— I’ll be waiting in bed. — you murmured.

He answered without looking, just a rough sound — almost a tired groan.

But his eyes didn’t leave the screen. The cold glow of his father’s name stayed there, flickering like a shadow that never slept.

As you walked down the hallway, you could still faintly hear Roman’s voice — tense, clipped — as he answered the call.

And by the time you lay down in bed, you could no longer hear anything from the living room. His voice, once sharp and filled with noise, faded gradually, swallowed by the walls, until only the distant hum of the empty house remained.

Time after that blurred. Silence and exhaustion melted together, and you drifted off, your body still warm from the confusion before.

When the bedroom door opened, the sound was soft — but enough to pull you from the edge of sleep. The room was dark, broken only by the pale light from the hallway.

Roman entered without a word. The muffled click of his phone on the bedside table, the sound of his belt loosening, the faint rustle of fabric hitting the floor — small signs that he still carried the weight of that earlier conversation.

Soon after, the mattress dipped under his familiar weight. You stayed on your side, still hovering between sleep and waking, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breath as he settled into the pillow.

Roman lay on his back at first. He stayed like that for a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, motionless, exhaling slowly — like someone trying to empty his mind. The silence in the room was heavy, broken only by the faint sound of your breathing.

Then he turned onto his side — toward you. The mattress dipped again, and his arm slid across your body, firm, pulling you closer. The warmth of his touch came fast — his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your skin as he buried his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling slowly.

Your hand found his, fingers intertwining. — You okay? — you whispered, not turning around.

He didn’t answer. Just stayed there, quiet, breathing against your skin. When he finally spoke, it was barely a murmur, a confession lost in the dark: — I love how you smell.

You didn’t answer. You just let his hand rest over yours, his body molding closer, as if he were searching for shelter in silence.

His breathing slowed little by little, the warmth of his skin blending with yours, the weight of the whole day dissolving between one sigh and the next — until sleep finally reached him.

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