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You just can't help it. He's such an implacable wall of muscle with just the right amount of give in the middle of his shoulder blades, so that you can nestle your temple in perfectly there, feel the thrum of his heartbeat that thuds in perfect metronomic timing through the shell of your ear.
So that you can hear his humming chuckle of amusement as you wrap your arms around the stolidity of his stomach. As your hands struggle to make junction between each other but cannot given the width of his size.
"Gotta let me go so that I can make food for us," He mutters to you, so that you can feel the chord of his voice more than you can hear it. "Aren't you hungry?"
"Don't want you to leave," You grumble from where you've kept the two of you stationary in the hallway, preventing him from making return to the pasta noodles that are cooking. The pasta noodles that are boliing in merry roll, if the ear that isn't pressed up against the soft chafe of his hoodie is any indication.
"Don't want to get everything spilled all over the floor," He teases back in gentle manner, "Or else I'm gonna have to be away for longer."
"Mmmm," You grumble in chord against the inside of your lips, feeling the way that the muscles shift under the grip of your hands, "Take me with you, then."
"On your own or with my help?" He asks, and there's a humorous noise in his voice as he already knows the answer. From the way that you release his arms and finally relinquish your hold over him, over the comfort of his body, over the soothing rhythm of his heart.
"Come on, sweetheart," He groans as he turns around, allows you to see the vivid green of his eyes in handsome squint as he offers you sweet downward smile. A smile that is only reserved in privilege for you. "Let's get you up here."
And without hesitation, you close the distance into the spread of his arms that are already opening up for you. That exert no effort to ruck an arm under your thighs, to carry you into his embrace. It's instinctual, the way that you tuck your arms around the width of his waist that radiates power, reserved privilege in this moment.
To let your arms slink around his neck, to duck your head into the junction of his neck and shoulder and breathe in his scent. Of something that is uniquely his, uniquely a bouquet that you are given blessing to breathe in. When his arms wrap around yours, holding you to him in protective means, you can't help but sigh in relief.
"All mine," you swear fealty into the minutiae of his skin. Letting your arms huck more protectively over him, and being rewarded by the parallel clutch of his own arms over you.
"All yours," he pledges his loyalty, "Promise."
There's the scrape of chapped lips behind your ear that makes you giggle at the touch—he chuckles at your reaction. "Now lemme cook the pasta."
"Can you cook one-handed?" You ask with a teasing angle to your voice, already knowing what he will do for you. He makes a contemplative noise that rumbles through him.
"Might be a little burnt," he offhandedly comments, his hands tucking a little more assertively under your thighs. "But I don't think you'll mind."
"No," you smile against the pulse of his heart that is yours to know, "I don't mind at all."