The quiet, dim hush of morning seeps through the curtains and bathes you in soft gray light. It’s warm enough inside that you’ve kicked the blankets down past your knees, curling onto your side and burying your face in the pillow. The darkness and lack of birdsong indicates that it’s still too early for you to be up, and you doze somewhere in that half-waking state, thinking idly of the smell of birch and the gentle touch of calloused hands.
Frankie re-enters the bedroom, having misplaced his belt. He’d hoped he hadn’t woken you with his disentanglement and quick shower; an early morning had been scheduled at work and he had to be gone before your own alarm usually went off. Coming in now, though, he stills as he sees your form laid out in bed, and he feels his heart pulling him back, keenly wishing he had nothing more to do than slip in behind you and wrap you in his arms.
You faintly hear the door, and the deep murmur of Frankie’s voice saying “Dios mío…” as he comes further into the room. You feel his hand skate from your knee up over your hip, purposeful enough not to tickle, before he stoops to nuzzle your skin, exhaling quietly. He kisses your bare thigh, lingers, and gradually drags his warm lips up your hip and sighs. His hand travels up your side, knuckles brushing up under the sleeve of your shirt and settling before he bends to kiss your temple, stroking your hair back with his other hand.
It’s reverent, and it’s soft, and it’s gone far too soon, with one last kiss to your hairline and a stroke of his broad thumb as he pulls away. You sigh when he pulls the blanket back up, curling deeper into his side of the bed, and he wishes he could capture this moment in a snapshot to carry with him.
Instead he whispers “Have a good day, baby” before stepping back out and closing the door, already looking forward to his return.
