Warmth Of The Sun
Her hair is silk beneath his fingers. He lets his hands run through it and over the equally soft texture of her cheek when he happens to slip.
He curls a strand of her hair around his index finger like a spring or a protective covering of sorts and marvels in the way it feels: gentle but tight, warm, safe. He watches with the same fascination as he releases it and it slides off his finger, bouncing like a buoy out on the ocean.
His hand goes limp at his side and he buries his head in the crook of her neck. He can feel her smile against the top of his head. Her fruity shampoo fills his senses.
He opens his mouth to speak but abruptly closes it. It is not a time for words. Instead he chooses to focus on the feeling of her hair against his cheek and the warmth of the morning sun filtering in through the window.