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Thighs pressed together. Warm. Everything is so warm. His lips are warm. His body is warm, so warm, even through the layers of clothing separating you. He keeps you close. His arms are wrapped around you. He keeps you safe and warm. Always so warm.
He keeps the nightmares away. When they creep into your dreams, screeching and squirming inside your mind, he is there with you when you jolt awake, dizzy and out of breath. He holds you close. He whispers into your ear, I'm here, shhh. I'll keep them away. And he does.
You watch him pin back his hair, and your heart clenches with something you have yet to define. Those gorgeous blonde locks. The way they frame his face and drop down to his delicate shoulders. The little braid you take time weaving in his silky hair every morning. The way his dark crimson cape drapes over his body and sways in the wind.
When he calls out your name. In the hallway, when you come back home from work. In the kitchen, when he wants your advice on some recipe. In your bedroom, when he watches you with those sad, beautiful eyes of his filled with longing, waiting for you to finish your evening routine and fall into his arms again. And his embrace is so welcoming, and soft, softer than all the pillows scattered around your bed.
You hide your face against his chest. Home. That's what it feels like. Warm and shielded from the outside world in his arms. Your home is him. His eyes. His hair. His cape. His voice, too, bright and warm, it feels drapey like the sleeves of his stunning white shirt that suits him so well— too well, you think to yourself sometimes. It makes you question how come he's actually real. And he is.
His voice is what has always felt most captivating to you about him. It reminds you of a magnificent bird, graceful and proud. When he talks, always so passionate and spirited, the bird spreads its wings wide, dying to soar into the air and show the world what it is truly capable of.
And he is capable of so much, and that is yet another reason why you sometimes stop to question how he is real. He is not perfect, no; yet, he is almost perfect in all his imperfections. He puzzles you, infinitely, and that only makes you more drawn to him.
And then he kisses all the unspoken words away, and you think to yourself, do I even need words when I'm with him?
And it feels like you don't. The silence between you rarely feels distressing because you feel like you understand him so well.
When you're with him, pressed into the heat of his body, cradled in his gentle arms, the only word you need is Kaveh.
You call out his name between kisses, you whimper in pleasure as you squirm under his touch, you breathe it out when you shudder against and around him, close as you can get, and it never feels enough, and you come back for more, you don't even know if you want to give more or receive more because in those moment, that doesn't matter—you just want, no, you need to be closer to him. It is that hot, burning need inside you, coaxing out the desperate whimper that escapes your lips when he makes you feel so full and warm, so warm.
Kaveh.