Small Touches
He didn't talk in flowery verses, and I never expected him to. To wax poetic was his day job, something that ended with the soft thud of his laptop closing in our joint study. He always finished working before I did. I'd often smile fondly as he stretched out the stiffness of sitting and typing non-stop. Sometimes I'd watch the hem of his shirt ride up to expose pale (yet still more tan than I would ever be) skin and we'd both be done for the day. I have a tendency to be distracted by his attractiveness far too often. I told him this once and he just laughed and told me he'd go out and get a really bad tattoo if that would help. I responded by drawing on him in his sleep. He did not appreciate it.
After his stretching, without the skin show of course, he would stand behind me at my desk. He'd stand there for a moment, not speaking (though I'm sure a snide comment or two came into his mind the day he saw me researching that terrible Fifty Shades book). Then I feel it: the soft touch on my back, moving across gently as he left the room. He'd leave me in peace as I finished writing or proofreading whatever article I was working on, and I'd emerge to find him waiting with dinner. No matter how late I finished he always waited to have dinner with me. It makes me feel guilty that I never spare him the same courtesy when I'm the first one home, but he doesn't mind and I always have room for another helping of dinner when he is ready to eat.
Mostly we eat in silence, not due to coldness towards each other but because food for us is an experience. He's a wonderful cook and I'm usually too busy stuffing my mouth to make much conversation. There's lightness in his eyes as he constantly tries to not smirk at my gusto, though too often he fails. When I frown at him, or at least what passes as a frown when your mouth is full of rice, he makes a sarcastic remark and goes back to eating. The smirk never really leaves his face on those days. I wouldn't want it to.
Dinner was rampant with those small touches I had grown to adore. His hand grazing my arm as he reached to grab the wine glasses, a light tap on the shoulder as he served my meal. Sometimes he would just hold my hand until I complain about not being able to cut my steak. He promised to find a cookbook that had foods you only needed one arm to eat. Said he never wanted to stop holding my hand. That was a rare moment when the touches turned to words and made even more perfect.
Our life was full of these small moments. His arm around my waist as we strolled around New York looking for his new client who had gotten lost, holding hands while in line for a midnight release of something stupid I had to review. Even the time he practically begged for sex in our car held a sort of warm fuzziness to it due to his hand on my knee as I drove, laughing at the boyish look of pleading on his face. In the end he was right too, it was pretty amazing. Not that I'd ever tell him that, I can practically smell the smug sense of satisfaction.
Sometimes I wonder if he knows how much these small moments mean to me. Surely he could see my smile when casually tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, or softly touches my face with such love in his eyes that I'm surprised I don't cry. Crying probably wasn't the best idea to show him happiness, he'd probably feel like he'd hurt me somehow and bake me an apology cake or something. Not that I'm against cake, I'd just feel guilty eating it when he was being completely perfect and amazing.
My mother noticed this about him before I did. I was growing frustrated with the lack of romance in our relationship and had vented to her as Jess and Luke were off watching sports or something. We'd just moved in together and it was about to be our first Valentine's Day as an adult couple. I recounted to my mom of all the amazing things Logan had done for me on dates like that, on Valentine's and birthdays and anniversaries. Beautiful things like diamonds, but also sweet things like stuffed bears and once a homemade card. She explained to me that all men were different, they had different ways of expressing themselves and she was certain that Jess loved me dearly. Her certainty made me frown and I was going to ask her when she signed her allegiance for Team Jess, but we were interrupted by the man himself, bearing coffee and donuts. There was a moment when he looked at me and smiled, before ruffling my hair in a way that probably should've felt condescending. But it didn't. It was just so Jess and I caught my mother giving me the 'I told you so' look and from that moment on I never once doubted his feelings for me.
That Valentine's Day ended up as a disaster for completely different reasons.
Five years later I was even more appreciative of these small touches. Though Jess doesn't often say 'I love you', I know he does. I've always known, even before he first told me nine years ago… which funnily enough was around Valentine's Day. We'd never really had much luck with this particular corporate holiday. That wouldn't stop me from trying though. We exchanged stupid greeting cards this morning, with silly cartoons on them telling bad jokes which were never even clever. I got him one about mustard and ketchup, which was far too cute and incredibly lame. He returned the favour with a card that sang 'Boyfriend' by Justin Bieber. Which I suppose was fitting because he's not my boyfriend, but my husband.
Tonight he'd come home and complain about stupid corporate holidays that sapped idiots of their money as he'd attempt to eat the burnt but very romantic dinner that I'd prepare. That was another small thing that made my heart melt: he never complained about my cooking. He'd eat every last bite as though Gordon Ramsey himself had prepared it. I'd bought him a watch this year as a stand against people constantly checking their phones for the time. He'd appreciate the humour and I'd get to feel all warm every time I saw him put it on in the morning. A watch is such an easy thing to forget, but he never would because it's like a piece of me and for some strange reason he likes having me around.
That's when I'd ask him. No skirting around the subject or making lame jokes about fighting The Man. I'd smile, summon my courage and simply tell him I was ready. That I hoped he was too. Because I loved him with all my heart and the only thing I would love more would be the chance to create something from this love. Though I knew it would take time and effort (he'd probably joke about practice, too) I wanted us to have a baby. Starting soon, preferably.
I don't expect an argument, or a flat out no. Nor do I expect some perfectly worded declaration of how amazing I was and how my child would be as perfect as the moon or some other awful metaphor. I'm anticipating a small pause, as though he's letting the thought sink in. Maybe he'd fiddle with something on the table, as he did in times of great concentration. But then I'd receive the perfect affirmation. A small smile, and the gentlest of touches. Because that's who he was.
Or so I hope.
Hi guys! Remember me? Well I'm really blocked at the moment and this is the only thing that would come to me. Happy Valentine's Day! I've been trying to update a few stories since late December (one of them is supposed to be a Christmas story! I ruined it all!) but real life and writer's block are being a jerk. Hope you enjoyed this little ficlet and it was nice and Lit fluffy for you. For references sake I would think this takes place a year after 'No Fights, It's the Firelight', another story of mine.