Clayton Beresford fluff
He'll make coffee while you sit on the kitchen counter, the apartment still wrapped in dawn. He won't ask what you're thinking but slide your favorite mug toward you.
Some mornings, the only sound is the spoon clinking against ceramic. These are the mornings you feel loved the most.
He always walks closest to the road, and puts a blanket over your shoulders when you've fallen asleep watching a romcom.
Last Sunday, you were curled up on opposite ends of the couch. You were reading and Clay was pretending to read.
Every few minutes you'd catch him glancing over the top of his book.
"What?" you laughed.
"Nothing," he said quickly, looking back at the pages that he wasn't reading.
"You keep looking at me,” you said softly. He shrugs, cheeks faintly pink. "I like seeing you here." Your heart nearly melted into the couch cushions.
Today, after one of the worst days you've had in months, you come home exhausted and quiet.
Clay's already brought home takeout from your favorite place and one of his hoodies that you keep stealing.
He settles beside you putting your comfort movie on. Your shoulders touch and the two of you eat in silence, nothing else for nearly an hour.
Eventually you whisper, "I'm sorry I'm not talking."
"You don't have to," Clay says softly. Then his hand quietly to yours until your fingers find his and he intertwines them. His hands are soft and warm on yours as he brings your hand up to his lips and gives it a lingering kiss. "I know that you love me," he whispers.
You stare at him lovingly. "I didn't say anything."
A tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He brushes his thumb across your knuckles. "Even when you're quiet, I love you too."
