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As much as he fights against it, there is a particular shade of blue that Nanami will always associate with guilt.
Not only is it the color of the retired energy that still buzzes under his skin, the crackling reminder that he used to help people in a way that mattered … but it’s also the gleaming hue of your TV screen when it stalls out.
Usually after you’ve fallen asleep waiting for him.
That mocking glow is the first to greet him when he unlocks the door to your apartment, illuminating the curves of your body where you’re dozing on the sofa. It’s followed shortly by the bitingly pleasant smell of garlic in the air. In your text from earlier today, you’d told him to expect a home-cooked dinner, but he didn’t know that meant his favorite pasta.
Nanami’s head drops as he steps fully into the room, closing and locking the door behind him with a soft click. You’d given him the spare key after the third time he’d had to stay late at the office, resulting in three missed dates with you. Tonight is the… well, he’s lost count by now.
He hates it, the unpredictable schedule, the repeated late nights and overtime. And yet, surprisingly, he’d wager that he hates it even more than you do.
Though you had every right to, you were never angry or disappointed, didn't try to addle him with the blue-wreathed guilt he now carries. “I don’t care what time it is,” you’d said, your voice muffled as you sifted through a deep drawer in your kitchenette. “I still want to see you… ha! I found it!” You victoriously fist-pumped the silver key into the air before placing it into his palm. “To let yourself in.”
The thought rushed to the surface of his mind, of how impractical it was to keep your spare key in a random drawer, one you’d labeled for junk, no less, but he immediately tamped it down and instead, he’d… smiled.
How couldn’t he, when you were looking at him with so much trust? Not trust that he’d always arrive when he said he would -no, he hadn’t earned that- but trust with your home, the four privileged walls that see the most unfiltered version of you. Trust with your cat Momo, with your safety and comfort.
Frankly, no one would mind if I was gone, he’d told you once.
But you do. You notice.
And so he scrounges for every spare minute of off-time that he can, intent on saving them all for you. But on days like today, his efforts aren’t enough.
Quietly, Nanami nudges off his shoes, tucks his briefcase into its temporary home, out of the way beneath your entryway table. His clothes whisper against each other as he sheds his navy blue jacket, hangs it on the rack. Finally, he closes the distance between himself and the sofa. Honestly, he's surprised he hasn’t tread a flattened path into the carpet, as many times as he’s made this walk of shame.
Nanami deflates with a heavy sigh, landing on the edge of the center cushion. In the persistent glare of the TV screen, your hair is highlighted silver, some of it escaped from its messy bun and fanned haphazardly across your cheek. He reaches out and smooths it behind your ear, lips turning up slightly as the severe frown carved into your face comes into view.
He’d worry it’s because of his tardiness if he didn’t already know that you frown in your sleep constantly. Even counting Gojo, you’re the most expressive sleeper he’s ever met, which isn’t surprising; it aligns perfectly with the animated, big-hearted, annoying, absolutely wonderful menace you are when you’re awake.
He sighs again as he remembers you’ll have to wake up in just a few short hours; you have that nursing clinical early in the morning. He should do the reasonable thing and leave so you can rest uninterrupted, but he can’t bring himself to move.
Is it really so terrible if he wants to sleep pressed against you? He’ll risk Momo’s wrath by shooing her from where she’s likely sprawled out in the middle of the bed and get you tucked in quickly. He'll rub your back the way you like (with his blunt nails under your shirt, thank you very much) and you’ll be out again in no time at all.
And he’ll only feel a little selfish.
Plan cemented in his mind, Nanami unbuttons his shirt cuffs, loosens his tie a touch. Then, once again he brings his hand to your face and gently sweeps his thumb across your cheek.
—
You don’t remember what you were dreaming about, you barely remember falling asleep in the first place, but you don’t mind. Not when you’re being woken up in your favorite way: the brush of Nanami’s warm hand against your face.
“Mmm,” you hum your approval before your eyes crack open and the world swims into focus. The room is shadowed but the TV is still on, defaulted to the menu after losing its patience with you. Your water glass, half drunk, still on the coffee table, somehow spared from Momo’s acrobatics. And the man you love, seated beside you, hair disheveled, his sharp features painted even sharper by the TV’s glow.
He looks so tired. Exhausted, even. But when you smile at him, he gives you a small smile back.
“Hi,” you murmur.
“Hi.”
“I waited up for you,” you tell him, the words sounding crimped as you stretch your arms above your head.
A loud yawn escapes you then, causing Nanami’s eyebrows to flick up in amusement. “Did you?”
You grin and nudge him with your knee. “Points for trying?”
“Sure. We’ll add them to my tab.”
He says it in that dry-humored way of his, but you can still feel the weight of his words. They settle on your chest, pressing you even deeper into the sofa cushions. You aren’t sure how many more times you can try to convince him that you’re unbothered by his lateness- he’ll just take that to mean you’ve grown used to it- or that your own full-time nursing student/part-time worker schedule is equally chaotic and at fault for the distance between you. For some reason, your boyfriend has been and still is always prepared to shoulder that particular blame.
Kento Nanami is the most stoic, put together man you’ve ever met but sometimes he is just so silly.
You know better by now than to ask him how work was; his answer is always the same, short and bittersweet.
“Work is shit.”
Once, on a rare day date, between quiet sips and bites of lattes and almond croissants, you'd asked him if he ever thought about finding a job that wasn’t shit. Nanami immediately shook his head.
“I’m only good at two things in this life. One of them, I can’t… I won’t do again.”
“So, being a salaryman is what I’m left with. The job is shit no matter what corporation you work for, so there’s no sense in leaving my current company for another. At least this way, I know what the hits look like, where they’re coming from and from who.”
“I’m good at it,” he’d repeated. “And if I stay good at it, I’ll make good money and hopefully be able to retire by the time I’m 40.”
His words were wistful but so resolute that at the time, it didn’t seem appropriate to question him about the “other thing” he was good at. So instead, you'd resigned yourself to waiting for Nanami to extend that particular olive branch.
Even now, after all the time, conversations and intimacy you've shared, he has yet to bring it up himself. There are moments you can actually feel it, that charged something in the room with you that keeps you from knowing him fully.
It was admirable though, you thought, to know yourself and your capabilities, to be ambitious and have goals set. But did Nanami's have to be so… sad? Exhausting? Granted, your own schedule is hectic at the moment, but two things keep you going: you're studying to do something that you love and in the grand scheme of things, nursing school is a relatively short season of your life.
How could Nanami keep at this for another decade or more? Simply “doing his time” at a job he hated until he’d made enough money? How much was enough?
What amount could possibly be worth sacrificing his happiness, even temporarily?
You already know the answer to that question.
None. There will never be one.
But the man hunched on your sofa, blinking at you in the dim glow of your living room, who you can sit in complete contented silence and read books with, who puts on your ruffled apron and cooks for you, who places himself between you and the busy street when you’re strolling down a city sidewalk, who carries so much more than he lets on?
He's an entirely different story.
You hoist yourself into a sitting position. “Are you hungry? I can heat up the leftover pasta. There’s some garlic knots, too.”
“Thank you, but don’t trouble yourself. I’m fine.”
“How is it troubling myself if I want to do it?”
Nanami scrubs one hand over his haggard face. “I appreciate it, but I already ate.”
You frown at him. “An old sandwich you picked at from some vending machine doesn’t count.”
He half stands from the couch and extends a hand toward you, palm up. Conversation over. Until next time, at least.
“Ready for bed?” he asks. You’re decidedly not, but you take his offered hand all the same. Instead of allowing yourself to be lifted from the cushion, you resist and pull.
He must be even more exhausted than he looks or his guard is well and truly down, because he stumbles before falling into a sitting position next to you.
“What-” is all he manages to grunt before you’re crawling onto his lap, straddling him. You rest your hands on his shoulders and even though his eyes are full of questions, his own hands land on the plush of your hips. They squeeze you slightly, as if he can’t decide whether he wants to lift you from him or hold you in place.
You lean in and press a kiss to his lips. “Hi,” you murmur.
Nanami squints up at you, brow furrowing. “Hi. What are you doing?”
You subtly grind your hips against his once, then tilt your head and place a lingering kiss under his jaw. God, he smells so good, that spiced hint of his cologne layered over the clean scent that's just inherently him.
“What does it feel like I'm doing?”
Nanami huffs, but you swear you feel his pelvis shift in response to your movements. “You have to be up for that clinical in a few hours.”
You kiss right above his shirt collar, letting your tongue brush his skin. A shudder ripples through him and you smirk. “I'm aware.”
“You should… mm,” he hums as you lightly nip the same patch of skin your tongue touched, “you should get some rest.”
“I appreciate it, but I already slept,” you say, teasing his earlier words back at him. You pause, mouth hovering a hairsbreadth from his collar. “Do you want me to stop?”
A frustrated sound leaves your boyfriend. He hesitates before finally admitting, “No.”
You smile. “Good. That makes two of us.” You kiss his throat again, trail your tongue across it. “Let me take care of you.”
Before Nanami has another chance to protest, you’re slotting your mouth against his, hands roving from his shoulders to cup his face.
I missed you.
The words are on the tip of your tongue, but saying them will only make his guilt worse. Instead, you hope he feels them as you angle his head to deepen the kiss, tracing your tongue over his bottom lip. A moan rumbles from him and his mouth falls open, tongue meeting yours in one hot, slick stroke.
He kisses you like this, passionately, thoroughly, until your entire body feels warm and your mind is cloudy. Your boyfriend says there are only two things he’s good at in this life, but you’d argue there are three, four, more and the one you’re most focused on at the moment is the way he uses his mouth.
You know what Nanami’s mouth feels like on every inch of your body and that thought alone is enough to send pleasure rippling through you, to set your hips rolling into his. Distantly, you feel one of his hands leave your side, then his thighs tensing beneath you.
You pry yourself from his lips just long enough to watch his hand dip under the waistband of his slacks as he adjusts himself. His hand returns to bracket your hip, his mouth captures yours in another heated kiss and the next time you roll against him, you feel his hard length right where you need it. Your core instinctively clenches at the friction and you sigh into each other’s mouths as you feel each other more clearly.
You’re unsure of how long you’re writhing against each other; the only thing you understand is the way that he’s angled against you is hitting your clit deliciously and your entire body feels like one racing, throbbing heartbeat. Eventually, you can’t keep kissing him, you can only manage to pant into his mouth, you feel so good, so close … you could come right now. You could actually get off on his lap, even though there are still layers of clothes between the pair of you.
The next time Nanami thrusts against you, a sharp cry leaves your mouth and your eyes fly open. Not out of shame- no, never with him- but sudden… awareness.
And by the way his hands have descended from your hips to your bare thighs, how his fingers are slipping beneath the hem of your pajama shorts, drifting up and up and up… he knows what he’s doing, trying to get you there first.
Somehow, you’re the one being reduced to a puddle when you said you were going to take care of him.
Selfless bastard.
As much as it physically pains you, you halt your hips and press your palms against Nanami’s heaving chest. Then, for good measure, you lock your legs around his, just in case he gets any wild ideas about moving you.
His own hips stutter to a stop. His umber eyes flicker open, finding yours. “Everything all right?” he breathes.
“Fine,” you assure him. “I just want to make you feel good.”
Nanami frowns. “You were. You are.” As if to emphasize this, his fingers squeeze your legs.
Your hands slide from his shirt to burrow under his palms; you grip them and squeeze back. “Good, I’m glad. But just… relax, okay? Let me take it from here.”
“Sure you’re not tired?”
“Kento.”
In the faint glow from the television, you see his throat bob. Finally, he sighs. “Okay.”
“Okay.” In an exaggerated motion, you pry his hands from your legs and plant them on your hips. “Keep these here.”
Nanami huffs. “Whatever you say.”
“Good,” you say before molding your mouth to his, eager to build him back up after the interruption. You want him fully at ease, until he’s unraveling the same way you were.
In between the insistent presses of your lips, your hands wander to his collar and flip it up. You hook a finger around his tie, pleased to find that it’s already loosened. You momentarily break the kiss to slide it over his head and as you do… the knot wedges itself under his nose.
Not loose enough, apparently.
As if that alone wasn’t enough to make you crack up, the grumpy eye roll Nanami gives you, tie dangling under his nose like a polyester elephant's trunk, sends you over the edge. You fall against him and absolutely lose it, snorting your laughter into his shoulder.
To make matters worse, his hands are still dutifully attached to your hips. As you’re trying to compose yourself, he finally says, “Excuse me. Are you just going to leave me here like this?”
It’s late at night, you’re sleepy, you’re with your favorite person and these three combined make this the funniest thing you’ve ever heard. You wheeze.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. This is not going the way I want it to,” you manage to squeeze out, sitting up to free him from his red tie with the beige dots. You fling it to the side. “It’s these boring ties of yours. They’re tricky.”
Nanami smirks up at you. “I’m going to chalk this up to user error.”
You grin. “I think you mean buyer error. We need to get you some new ties, ones with bright colors or prints. Something fun. Like this,” you say, and effortlessly tug your leopard-print silk scrunchie from your hair. Grinning, you show it to him before tossing it overboard to join his tie. “See? Look how easy that was to take out.”
“That’s because it’s made of silk.”
“Because it’s fun.”
The corners of his mouth lift. “You’re a menace.”
“That’s what you tell me.”
Somehow, you think he might be the only man capable of making the word sound so… tender. Endearing.
You study Nanami's face for a moment; though you unexpectedly took the path of most resistance to get him here, he actually does look… relaxed. His edges are blurred, shoulders slack and he’s gazing at you like you hung the damn moon.
It’s more than you could ask for.
You drape yourself over him, mouth slanting against his to deliver more slow, teasing kisses while you make relatively quick work of unbuttoning and removing his shirt and undershirt. You sit back, palming the lines of his abs while appreciating the expanse of his bare chest. It's a familiar sight, broad and pale, interrupted by a light smattering of freckles.
He’s just… beautiful. It’s not a word you’ve ever thought to use to describe a man before, but he really is so beautiful.
Once you’ve thoroughly soaked in the sight of him, you begin your descent. Down his chest, sliding off his lap. On your knees on the floor, fitting yourself between his spread thighs. You scrape your lips along his stomach, pleased to hear his breath catch when your chin nudges against his waistband.
You unbuckle his belt and you don’t have to look up to know that he’s staring at you. You feel the heat of his attention in your cheeks, blooming across your chest. He lifts his hips to help you slide his trousers down and your heart thumps in anticipation; you might be just as excited to have him inside your mouth as he is.
His cock bobs free and you waste no time in coiling one hand around it, giving him a few shallow strokes. Nanami rewards you with a deep groan and briefly, you glance at his face. He’s still watching you, still has the ability to hold his head up.
That won’t do. You want him fully undone. Your priority is to make him feel good, yes, but you can’t deny there’s always a hint of selfish pride involved when you have him like this. You’re the only one who gets to take calm and collected Kento Nanami apart, the only one who gets to see him so messy and free.
Without warning, you take him into your mouth, as deep as he’ll go.
“Ah, sshhit,” your boyfriend chokes out, broad thigh tensing under your hand. His reaction sends a warm high buzzing through you that settles low in your belly.
That’s it. Just let go.
Nanami is thick and long, always a bit of a stretch but a welcome one. So you keep your other hand wrapped around the exposed base of his cock, pumping in rhythm with your mouth. It isn’t long until he’s completely covered in your spit and the filthy, wet sound of it is filling your ears.
The only thing is… your hair is loose and plastering itself to the sticky mess you’ve made. You sigh internally. Why did you think it was a good idea to toss your scrunchie when your mission all along was to give Nanami a blow job?
With your free hand, you blindly begin reaching for it, mentally willing it to appear under your fingers. Exactly how the hell far did you fling it just to make some nonsensical point?
Even in the throes of passion, Nanami senses your frustration. “What’s the matter?” he suddenly says.
Regretfully, you release him with an audible pop. “Can’t find my hair tie,” you grumble. He doesn’t give you any more time to stew before he’s raking one hand through your hair, gathering it away from your face and gripping it into a ponytail.
“Better?”
You huff against his cock; the man always seems to have an answer for everything. Once again, you slide him into your mouth. Should be answer enough for him.
He gasps, his hand clenching in your hair. The tug sends tingles all across your scalp and you can’t help but moan around his cock. The throbbing between your legs is nearly unbearable, demanding to be addressed. Your thighs begin to rub together on their own, desperately seeking the sweet relief of friction.
And only adding to that is Nanami’s moans growing louder, closer together. After a particularly low groan, he begins babbling incoherently, words that sound like, …my girl, and feels… good.
There is one phrase in particular that you’re able to make out fully, one that drives your eyes upward, to his face.
I don’t deserve you.
You were about to pull yourself off of him, tell him sweetly to shut up, because of course he does, but then you saw that his head was tilted back, resting on the couch cushion. You quickly decide he's so utterly blissed out, right where you want him, that he doesn’t understand what he’s saying.
So. Silly.
You always know he’s close when his legs begin twitching, as if it’s taking everything in him not to thrust into your mouth. This spurs you on and you quicken your pace, determined more than ever to get him there. In return, he’s pulling on your hair, hard, harder, teetering on the delectable edge of pain-
His other hand lands on yours, the one still fisted around his cock. You pull off of him, eyes finding his flushed face, waiting.
“I want to finish inside of you,” he rasps. “Can I?”
It’s not the ending you had planned, but you can’t deny you aren’t aching for him as well. Besides, you can just as easily be in control on top.
Shooting to your feet, you quickly shed your clothes before climbing onto his lap and propping your hands on his shoulders. One of his hands settles around your hip, steadying you and the other drifts down to palm your heat, his middle finger tracing the line of your slit, smearing your arousal.
Your lips part on a soft gasp and your hips cant toward him, silently urging him to touch you closer, deeper. Nanami doesn’t torture you this way for long; a few more seconds and he gives you what you want, sliding his finger inside.
“So wet for me,” he moans, curling his finger inward to graze your inner wall. Your walls clamp around him as he thrusts languidly, in and out, stoking your inner fire. He shortly adds a second finger and your head dips to watch; it’s too dark to see where his fingers are disappearing inside of you, but you’re fascinated by the glint of his wristwatch, how it reveals the rhythm of his motions.
It’s only when his thumb starts tracing circles against your clit that your head lolls back, eyes slamming shut as you begin to ride his hand in earnest. Your heartbeat is pounding in your ears, interrupted only by the sound of his plunging fingers growing wetter. You’re so enthralled, so focused on satisfying that tingling pulse beating between your legs that at first, you don’t even realize he’s speaking to you.
“Are you ready for me?” he asks, grip on your hip tightening, apparently having reached the edge of his carefully honed restraint.
“God, yes.”
You lift your hips and don’t even have time to mourn the loss of his fingers before the head of his cock is there, pressing into you.
Nanami’s head tips forward on a groan, resting against your clavicle as he lets you take the lead, lowering yourself onto him as gradually as you need. You’re so wet from the magic he worked with his fingers that it feels almost effortless to take him; it’s always an adjustment, but there's never discomfort, just that familiar, pleasant pressure. When you’re completely full of him, you press a kiss to his sweaty forehead and begin to move.
You fall into a slow, grinding rhythm that he seems to enjoy as well, if the rumbling sounds escaping him are any indication. Nanami’s breaths are hot and sharp against your skin, punctuated by a necklace of messy kisses that he strings across your collarbone.
You want to feel that talented mouth elsewhere, lower, so you arch your back, thrusting your breasts more predominantly forward. He knows what you need, he always does. Nanami’s large hand cups one breast to his mouth, fingers dimpling your flesh. You breathe a satisfied sigh as his lips wrap around your pebbled nipple, teeth nipping before gently sucking away the sting.
The sensation sets you alight with fire and energy and you bring yourself down harder onto his cock, rocking in such a way that he’s pressing into that spot like the most pleasant bruise, over and over and over…
“Kento,” you moan desperately to the ceiling. You want to say more, but every plunge onto his length, every meeting of your rear and the top of his thighs is wiping your mind blank; nothing makes sense to you other than the sound of his name.
Somewhere in the haze of your pleasure, you’re dimly aware of his mouth leaving your breast. His hands migrate to your back, fingers roving the track of your spine, the span of your shoulder blades, touching you so reverently that you imagine it’s what being worshiped must feel like.
“I… ah- I love you, I love you,” he pants against you, each word like a hot tattoo embedded into your skin. The point of his nose skims your chest, your throat, followed by the wet-pressed assurances of his lips.
You look at him then, your face cracking into a smile. The first time he said it to you was right here on this very couch and just the same as that night, it fills you with a rush of joy.
“Mmm, I- I love you too,” you manage to hum back.
“Then come,” he begs. “Come for me. Please. I want to feel you. Need it.”
It’s just the thing you’ve wanted to hear all evening, how to tip him over that edge. And now that he’s told you what he needs, who are you to deny him?
It’s as if your body is aware of something slotting into place; the tension in your abdomen strains, then releases all at once. You come hard around him and fall forward, arms twining around his neck. Your thighs tremble as pleasure rolls through you, a tidal wave threatening to drag you under. And you’re letting it, delirious and wondering why everything can’t feel as good as this.
The feeling of Nanami’s continued thrusts is the only thing keeping you tethered as you ride out your orgasm. Your eyes flutter open as you finally return to yourself and it’s just in time to watch as he comes apart with a broken moan, his brow tightening and eyes scrunching shut. His body shudders a disjointed rhythm as he spills himself inside of you, warm and deep.
You stay twined around each other for a moment, trembling, catching your breaths and pressing random kisses to each other’s sweat-slicked skin. Once you’ve regained the ability to lift your head, you gaze down at his face. You’re pleased to find that he’s already staring at you and even more pleased to see that he’s not the same weary man who let himself into your apartment a short time ago.
This man is untroubled, spent and satisfied.
Nanami places one more kiss on your chest before he shifts you onto your back on the cushions. His cock slips out of you and you angle your hips so his spend doesn’t trickle onto the sofa. One of the few downsides of being on the pill: the cleanup.
He stands, flashing you a small smile as he tugs his slacks up his legs. “Be right back,” he murmurs and retreats into the kitchenette.
The faucet kicks on with a hiss and you lie there, listening to it drowsily. You could do this with him forever, you think, the domesticity, the calmness of it all. Maybe he’ll be convinced to leave his job as a salaryman, find something that affords him more peace and less regrets. Change his mind and return to the “other thing” he’s good at, whatever it might be.
Surely he’ll let you all the way in, someday.
The faucet cuts off with a squeak and Nanami rounds the corner, damp washcloth in hand. Before it even touches you, you know that it’s a few degrees cooler than room temperature, just the way you like it. He fits himself between your spread legs and you sigh in relief as he presses the cloth to your sensitive skin.
“Feel good?” he asks after another gentle pass of the washcloth to your inner thigh.
“Mm. Always.”
When he’s finished wiping away the mess the two of you made, he stands, cloth in one hand, reaching for you with the other.
“Ready for bed?”
You hum your agreement, this time allowing him to lift you from the couch. Your foot catches on the pile of your pajamas and you stoop to pick them up, along with his discarded shirts. You drape his clothing over the back of the couch, then your eyes do a quick scan of the rest of the living room; his tie and your scrunchie are nowhere to be found.
Silly as it is, you have the passing thought that maybe his red tie will never be seen again. Maybe you’ll just have to buy him another one. And if it just so happens to match your hair tie, then so be it.
Nanami finds the remote and clicks the TV off. The room falls dark, save for the parking lot lamps shining dimly through the window. With one hand on your lower back, Nanami ushers you to the bathroom. You hang the washcloth in the shower, then dump your pajamas into the hamper; you don’t want to feel them between the two of you tonight.
You brush your teeth elbow-to-elbow before finally crossing into your bedroom, where Momo is lounging like the little orange queen she is, right in the middle of your mattress. You clap your hands at her a few times and finally, she jumps down, but not before hissing and a singular swat with her paw so you know exactly how she feels about being disturbed.
The moment you slide between your sheets, you let out a groan. “Ugh. I never realize how tired I am until my body hits the bed,” you say, a yawn trailing after your words.
Nanami huffs a chuckle as he steps out of his pants and briefs. “I told you you should get some rest.”
You can’t help it, you never can; your eyes greedily drink in the sight of his naked body- beautiful -before glancing back to his face. “I don’t mind. I sleep better after you’ve been inside of me, anyway.” You give him an exaggerated wink, which earns you another chuckle.
“Likewise,” he says, lowering a knee onto the bed. You lift your arms and gesture for him to tuck himself in beside you. He obliges, spreading himself out on his stomach, his head coming to rest against your chest, one muscled arm slung around your waist. You card your fingers through his hair, raking your nails gently across his scalp and he hums contentedly.
A few moments pass and even as you feel his body growing heavier against you, he asks, “Would you like me to rub your back?”
“Not tonight,” you reply.
Nanami hums again, then mumbles something you can’t quite make out.
“What’s that?” you murmur.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For… staying up for me.”
His voice is quiet, soft with impending sleep. You smile and drop a kiss on top of his head. The last words you say to him for the night are just as quiet, but not without conviction.
“You’re worth the wait.”
You hope that eventually, he'll believe them himself.