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The rain had soaked everything to the skin: Our shoes soggy, our hair plastered to our heads, the smell of wet pavement clinging to our coats long after we'd stepped through the hallway. Sylus peeled off his gloves with a little theatrical sigh and dropped them by the door, I shrugged free of my jacket and laughed when it clung to my sleeves like a stubborn thing. We moved through the apartment in a comfortable, unhurried choreography — towels, warm light, the shower steam that seemed to swallow the damp right out of us.
Water ran down my back and into the plughole and, for a little while, all that existed was the soft hiss of the shower and the steady rhythm of us breathing. When we finally emerged, hair tamed into damp messes, skin warm and flushed, Sylus wrapped his arms around me as we dried off. He made the hot chocolate — two mugs, a little more chocolate than necessary — and the steam curled up between us as if to keep us warm on its own.
We sank onto the sofa, a sodden world left behind. The summer heat should have been oppressive, instead it felt like a distant fact, irrelevant to the shelter of the room and the closeness of us. I pressed my face into the crook of his neck, breathed him in: Mineral balsamic sap — scent of his soap — rain, the faint musk of his day. He hummed something contented and wound an arm around my shoulders.
Without much thinking, I launched myself into his face with kisses — quick, hungry pecks that morphed into softer, lingering ones. He laughed into my mouth and tried, half-successfully, to feign offence at the assault. I kissed the corner of his jaw, the slope of his cheek, the soft place beneath his ear, each one earning a muffled protest and, secretly, a brighter chuckle.
Eventually my energy ebbed, the heat and the shower had paired to make my lids heavy. I let myself melt against him, resting my head on his chest. His heartbeat thudded a steady companion beneath my ear. Sleep crept along my spine in drowsy ribbons.
“You're such a big boy,” I murmured, and giggled at the sound of it — an affectionate tease that felt absurd and perfect all at once. Sylus was thirty. He was three years older than and, in every sensible way, more than an adult. Yet the phrase fit the warm, cosy lilt of the moment — playful, teasing, an intimate joke between us.
He shifted, one hand going to my hair, fingers threading through the damp strands. “Big boy, am I?” His voice was amused, low with that gentle rasp it always had when he was amused.
“You'll only become a man when you become my husband, Sylus.” The words slipped out in a sleepy half-whisper, mischief braided with something softer — an offhand proposal wrapped in a sigh.
For a heartbeat there was nothing but the ticking of the clock and the faint creak of the sofa. Then Sylus let out a sound that started as a laugh and softened into something like awe. He tightened his hold on me, not in a constricting way but as if he might anchor me forever.
“You made that sound very casual,” he said, amusement bright in his voice, but there was a warmth there I heard like sunlight through curtains. He tilted his head so he could look at me properly, the sort of look that steadied me. “Are you proposing while half-asleep and trailing hot chocolate down your chin?”
I wiped at my mouth with the back of my hand and grinned up at him. He smiled back, slow and soft, and when he spoke again there was a hush to it that turned the room smaller and more intimate.
“If that's you asking,” he said, the words small but steady, “then yes. But I won't have you call me a big boy for the rest of the afternoon if that's the deal.”
I snorted a sleepy laugh. He rubbed his thumb gently in the hollow beneath my ear, and I felt the way his fingers lingered — thoughtful, decisive. “Deal?” I asked, and my voice was less joking now, carrying something honest.
“Deal.” He kissed my forehead, once, then again, slower, and the second one deepened into something that settled between us. “I'll become your husband when you want me to. But until then — I’ll be whatever you call me.”
I nuzzled into his neck, sleep and contentment knitting me close. “Good,” I mumbled, and the word unfurled like a small, bright flag. Sylus chuckled and, as if to seal the moment, tightened his hold and pressed his cheek to my hair.