It is quiet.
In the morning you can feel his hand in your hair. He ruffles it, and it puffs out in soft, loose tufts of golden wheat. You laugh, and he huffs out complaints, but it doesn't mean anything. It's just a facade, but he tries to preserve his dignity.
You pull him closer; his breath puffers out in warm clouds. For the first time in a long time, you feel safe. His hand travels from your shoulder to your frail waist. You freeze.
It comes rushing back. The floodgates open as memories of discared clothes, humid pants and moans, explosions of pain and pleasure, the droplets of sweat because it hurts- you love him so much- he loves you, husky "I love you's" and whispered "beautiful's" escape in tendrils of passion and devotion, slick, sweet, sex permeates the air, and its frgrance lingers: you remember all this.
Your eyes widen. You blush a deep scarlet shade. He hushes you, "you were perfect; I love you no matter what," these are the things that are said before tiny droplets of saline tears trickle down your cheeks. He asks what's wrong. You smile.
"I'm fine; I'm just happy."
You don't know if this will last as you lay in his king-sized bed staring at the ceiling. He notices you spacing out. He snaps his fingers. Obviously, he is annoyed. You giggle, and you snuggle and cuddle him closer to you.
"Warm~," You mumble. Humming a forgotten melody, his fingers tiptoe up and down your side to its rhythm. His long fingers finally rest on your hipbone. A soft smile appears on your face.
Typical.
Yet you love him, you muse.