Without a word he stood and left the room, returning a moment later bare chested. He lumbered, all six-foot-three of him, from the door to my bed. Then dove right in, wrangling pillows until he’d conquered the pile. With a satisfied grin, he laid there while I crawled in beside him, turned away, waiting for him to initiate contact, waiting for him to define the line.
No sooner than I was settled than his arm reached across and pulled me into his curve. I fit so perfectly into that body. Softly, we whispered our good nights and closed our eyes. Once I heard his breathing deepen, I followed the beating of his heart — transferred from his chest through my back, guiding my own rhythm. Softly swayed to sleep by the expanding/contracting of his chest.
Hours later, I woke to him crawling from the bed — upset that he might be leaving, I laid still, listening for clues. A quiet trickle, a rush of water, and back he staggered. With me on my front, he settled in, sliding his hand along my back, finding my low back uncovered. With sleep-drunk hands, he traced pictures on my bare skin and rubbed the day’s knots from my pale shoulders — hands coming back to rest against the warm, exposed skin of my low back. We slept like that, tangled in a mess of limbs and blankets, exchanging the scents of our skin.
Waking up next to him with my hand on his chest, once again soothed by the rise and fall of his chest and subtle heartbeat beneath fingertips, even the trill of my alarm was somehow remarkably comfortable.
With the third misuse of the snooze button, I begin to roll toward the edge of the bed, but he sleepily refuses to release me from our tangle of limbs. I turn back and softly place a kiss atop the sea of speckles adorning his exposed shoulder.
Even now, at the end of the day, I can smell his scent on my skin.