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It was soft here: underneath the sheets, your back pressed to his chest, held still by the solid, comforting weight of his arm that wrapped around your torso, ending in a hand that lightly grasped the material of your shirt. Every few seconds, warm air tickled your ear, causing an indescribable pleasure to seep in through your skin and reach all the way to your heart. There, it struck a chord that developed into a melody; your heart obliged to deliver it to the rest of your body.
You closed your eyes with a sigh as the morning sun began to creep in, and in your mind’s eye, you saw his face: his beautiful blue eyes, his strong jaw, his perfect nose, his soft lips. Those lips—you let out another sigh—how those lips had so many times been the deliverer of his love and adoration for you. Even now, you could feel the ghost of them on your shoulder; you shifted slightly with the desire to feel him there once again.
But then, another breath fanned over you, and you were lost in its exquisite feel, like it had been created specifically for you: to make you feel good, to draw you in, to inspire your devotion. All he had to do was lay there—simply be with you, in his most vulnerable state, clinging to you with fervency even as his consciousness swam deep beneath the surface. But he was still him now, too; his heart repeated slow rhythms against your spine, reverberating through your rib cage and once again bestowing a lightness, a beauty, a pleasure to your heart.
Where all his touches traveled to.
You pressed one hand to your chest, imagining storing that feeling inside—all your memories of feeling this way, of being close to him.
You never wanted to leave this bed or this moment. It was all that existed.
Obi-Wan’s sharp intake of breath eased a smile onto your face, eyes still closed, heart still singing, body still encased in his love.
The hand on your shirt released its grip, and you immediately caught it, bringing it up and pressing it to your chest. Arm encasing his, it felt like it had been set in the oven to warm overnight: at once, he burned and soothed your skin.
“Mm,” hummed your love, nuzzling his face into your hair and giving the back of your head a chaste but lingering kiss. “Good morning,” he whispered against you and pressed his lips over your hair one more time, taking a deep breath in.
You squeezed his hand and leaned further back into him, wanting to crawl inside of him, to have him crawl inside of you—to be one body, one mind, one soul in this warm bed, to sleep and wake together for the rest of time. In response, he lifted one leg over your hip, using his heel to gently pull you even closer, the action eliciting a giggle that communicated the most incandescent, tranquil, blissful happiness that could ever be experienced.
You felt his smile in the way his fingertips pressed slightly into your chest, in the way his lips knew exactly where you wanted them: they met your shoulder, and you squeezed his hand with a quiet—yet absolutely exultant—“Thank you.”
His voice was smooth and deep, and it flew around your mind like a windstorm: “Oh, my dear, you are most welcome.”
Anyone but you would have questioned his sincerity, being the equivocal tease he was, but here—there was no chance for falsities when it came to giving and receiving love.
“Now, what was going through your mind when you were laying here, waiting for your lazy lover to wake up?”
You chuckled, tilting your head back to finally look at him—and what a sight he was: eyes half-lidded but crinkled, mirroring his smiling lips; and his hair, not neat and orderly like usual but laying in disordered patches around his head: a true lion. Seeing him like that, you couldn’t help it: you had to taste this loving, vulnerable moment for yourself. With the impatience of a taxi driver caught in traffic, you craned your neck and connected your lips with his, the appendages slotting themselves together without your conscious control: they belonged like that, molding together, giving and receiving all the other hand to offer, speaking what words alone could not convey, could not make you feel.
His mouth broke open against yours; a buzzing began at your lips and traveled to your brain, making all else hazy and harmonizing: Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan, my love, I love you, Obi-Wan, closer, lover, Obi-Wan. He pulled back suddenly, only to quickly swipe hair from your face and reconnect your lips in a slow, passionate, heart-shattering, breath-stealing kiss that left you panting and trembling in his arms.
A few moments passed, and you were suspended in the memory of his mouth caressing yours; you were floating on the high cloud of his adoration. So transcended you were, his voice came to your consciousness in slow waves, eventually resembling coherence. “I am quite a fan of this show-rather-than-tell method.”
Although aware of his words, you were still speechless: the buzzing in your brain drowning out all thoughts but that of his lips, of his eyes staring into yours, of his hand still pressing into your chest. You closed your eyes and breathed in, letting the air swirl around your lungs and awaken you to reality. As you released it, you smiled. “I quite enjoyed it, too. But that’s not what I was thinking about.”
His mouth opened and brow furrowed in mock offense. “Are you telling me you didn’t want my kiss?”
Your smile grew into a grin: a beam of light. Your words, however, held the seriousness of a cemetery. “You will never hear such words come from my mouth.”
Obi-Wan regarded you with narrowed eyes, a playful smile giving away his act. He gave his head a lighthearted shake and kissed your nose. “Fine.” Another slow, loving look passed over his face. “Now, tell me what I would like to know.”
“Well, let me think for a minute.”
“As you know, I am a patient man,” he said, gently rolling your torso, so his chest molded against your back once more.
“As you know, I am very appreciative.”
He chuckled, and you closed your eyes, seeing once again the face of your love behind your eyelids. You could have turned around and seen it for yourself, but you didn’t dare: who knew how long you would have that privilege? And who knew whether you would always be able to remember his face if you never tried?
Besides, it was soft here: underneath the sheets, your back pressed to his chest, held still by the solid, comforting weight of his arm that wrapped around your torso, ending in a hand that was encased in your own and was pressed close to your heart. Once more, warm air tickled your ear in a steady rhythm as Obi-Wan’s breaths slowed and evened out; the melody again flooded your veins, and a still peace followed while you melted back into the vulnerability of sleep under the all-encompassing weight of his body.