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Help I’m In Love - Blog Posts
prompt: “Just hold me for a while, please.” requested by everyone’s fave, @nyc-parker
“You look lovely,” he tells her, and she smiles at him warmly, a small thing that barely lifts the corner of her painted red mouth, and he loves the sight of her.
Her mascara is smudged, just the tiniest bit. It’s the kind of thing that you wouldn’t notice if you didn’t spend hours learning the sight of her face in every setting. She’s so pretty, curled hair flattening after hours at some dinner for her job.
She hadn’t had a plus one, and he’d had work to do anyway.
He’d seen her getting ready, hung out with her while got ready. She’s got a certain laser-sharp focus when she does these things, eyes trained on the right color of eyeshadow and how to do the uptick of her eyeliner just perfect, and it’s lovely to watch. (She usually reserved such attention to him.) She had curled her hair and yelled at him for making her laugh because I could burn myself you dick!
She’d stepped into silver heels and he’d looked her up and down like it’s still before he’d had the nerve to tell her looking at her was his favorite thing to do- and she’d looked like the most stunning thing the world’s ever made. She’d had the nerve to ask if she looked okay, tucking a curled lock behind her ear and brows furrowed as if that wasn’t an insane question.
(Sometimes he wonders if she can see.)
And while it was upsetting not to go with her, this is still the best part of the night, anyway. She’s wearing a long purple dress and her heels are off because she can’t stand them anymore. She falls into the space next to him on the couch, leaning into him like she’s made to exist in his sphere. It’s second nature, the way he wraps his arm around her shoulders and how she leans back.
“Thank you,” she replies, and fatigue drips from her honey-sweet voice, and she turns to tuck her face into the crook of his neck, voice muffled as she speaks, “You look lovely too.”
He does not. He is wearing a grey T-shirt that has a coffee stain on the front and old shorts he’s pretty sure he bought in high school, his hair’s a mess because he’s run his hands through it like 8 times, and he’s pretty sure the cold cup of tea and half-eaten slice of pizza doesn’t make him look like some god of attractiveness. She sounded serious though, and that’s the part that still melts him down to the center.
(She drinks in the sight of him the same way he looks at her, and it’s still hard to believe.)
“No comment,” he says back, and it’s worth it for the way she laughs, soft and real while shifting to prop her legs up on their cheap coffee table from goodwill.
She’s wearing the perfume he gave her for their anniversary, and she’s all easy movements and effortless grace, careful and reverent with the way she touches him. He loves her when she laughs, loves her when she smiles and loves her when she fights with him over what show to watch and loves her when she’s not doing anything at all.
Her eyes are fluttering shut, and it’s an easy tell that she’s exhausted. Her favorite show is on, which they don’t watch together often, mostly because of how she fawns over the main character, which leads to him being miffed, not jealous, and she fawns over that.
Now, though, she can’t keep her gaze focused on anything at all. The only indication he has that she’s still awake is that she’s holding him too tightly to be asleep.
“Baby,” he says, and it’s hard not to relish how she preens, just the tiniest bit at the affection. It’s still so new, even after years of loving each other, the way it feels to hear the affection that drips from every affectation. “You wanna head to bed?”
“In a minute,” she replies, picking her head up to meet his gaze. It will invariably not be just a minute. And she’s been sleeping late lately, they should probably go to bed, especially if- “Just hold me for a while, please.”
Please. As if it’s a favor. As if it isn’t the greatest privilege he thinks he will ever have.
She snuggles into him and leans on his shoulder again, and she still makes his heart skip. Okay. Okay.
He kisses her temple then leans his head back on hers, legs tangled, the blanket covering her than on him, and he’s happy. Happy she’s warm, happy she’s with him, happy that his favorite thing to do in the world was asked of him. With a please.
“Of course, honey.”