Work Text:
Andrew's hands are rough, a side effect of being a labourer all his adult life. So his hands are rough, but always so gentle with you. He gets home from work, tired and filthy, and heads straight for the shower, grabbing you to come and join him on the way. He spends a few minutes just holding you beneath the flow of the water, letting the stresses wash away and breathing in the feeling of you in his arms.
Eventually, he pulls back, grabs the shampoo and gently works it through your hair. He teases out the tangles before rinsing out the suds and following up with conditioner. His touch is feather-light, barely there as he combs his fingers through to the ends.
You wait beneath the stream of water, hugging him from behind as he takes care of his own hair. When he emerges, he smells of you. Your shampoo, your shower gel and it tugs at your heartstrings that all he wants after the day away from you is to surround himself with you in every possible way. He gets out first, slings a towel around his waist and gets you one, wrapping you up in it as soon as you step into the cold air. His motions are methodical and practised, drying your skin without irritating it.
You've made a soup for dinner, warm and hearty and comforting. Roasted red pepper and spiced butternut squash, full of the flavours of autumn. There's fresh bread to go with it. Andrew can't cook for shit, doesn't pay attention to ingredients and flavour profiles, but his bread is better than any you've ever tasted. Watching his large, calloused hands knead the dough, so firm and sure, is a treat you savour as much as the end product itself.
You eat together at the table, legs pressed up against each other. You don't talk much, both exhausted from work, occasionally humming along to the jazz emanating from the record player in the corner of the room. When you've mopped up the last of the soup with the crusty bread, he takes the plates to the sink. He always insists on washing up because"you did all the cooking love, it's my turn to help."
He tells you you don't need to help dry, that you've done plenty for the day, to put your feet up and rest. Of course, you do anyway, relishing in the opportunity to be close to him, to plant a kiss on his cheek as you take each dish from him. It draws a shy smile and a small chuckle from him, always bashful under your attention.
When you're finished, he sweeps you up into a hug that is so sweet and tender you feel like your heart might burst. Almost before you notice it, he's lifting you off your feet and carrying you up to bed, hands gripping your thighs tight, the coarse texture of his skin on yours enough to soothe your frayed nerves.
As you brush your teeth together, he leans his head on yours and looks at you in the mirror, eyes so full of adoration and love that you almost can't bear it. You reach your bed and he goes to fetch a glass of water for your nightstand, knowing you get thirsty in the night. He kisses your forehead before crossing to his side of the bed. He opens his arms and you crawl into them without hesitation, head on his chest as he buries his face in your hair. You fall asleep quickly, safe and loved, rough hands gently tracing "I love you" onto your skin.