Light, Focus, and the Man Behind the Lens
Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Fem!Reader
On Valentine’s Day, Kyle turns your fear into faith by secretly submitting your photograph to a museum exhibit, then ends the night with cozy pasta, soft sex on the couch, and the quiet certainty that he believes in your future even more than you do.
NSFW
You find the first heart in your shoe.
A sticky pink foam heart, crookedly pressed inside the heel of your boot. When you flip it over, there is Kyle’s handwriting on the back in blue ink.
Check the fridge.
You are still half asleep, hair a mess, his old t shirt hanging off one shoulder. The flat is quiet. You pad to the kitchen and pull the fridge open.
There is a clear space on the middle shelf where your chaos of takeout containers usually lives. In its place sits a single paper bag with your name written on the front and a lopsided little heart drawn next to it.
Inside, there is a pastry from the café you like three blocks over. The one that always sells out by nine.
You glance at the clock.
It is barely eight.
Next to the pastry is another foam heart.
Living room, top drawer.
You are smiling before you even realize it.
The top drawer of the sideboard under the TV is organized in a way that is not your doing. Batteries, spare candles, a folded deck of cards, and in the middle a flat velvet box the size of your palm.
For a second your brain short circuits.
You open it.
It is not a ring.
It is a slim black leather camera strap, soft as butter. There is a tiny silver plate near the clip, engraved with a date and the coordinates for the spot where you took your first photo of him, the one he actually let you keep.
Under the strap is another heart.
Turn around.
You do.
Kyle is leaning against the doorframe, mug in his hand, half smile on his face. T shirt, jeans, bare feet. The morning light from the window catches the little scar at his jaw, softens the dark curve of his lashes.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says quietly.
Your chest feels too full.
“You did all this before I woke up,” you say.
He lifts one shoulder.
“Didn’t want to waste the day,” he says. “And you sleep like a rock. It’s not hard to sneak around when you are out cold.”
You roll your eyes, but you cannot stop the way you walk straight to him. He meets you halfway, setting the mug down just in time to catch you when you wrap your arms around his neck.
He smells like coffee and laundry detergent and that warm skin scent that only shows up when he is off duty. His hands slide around your waist like they belong there.
“You like it,” he asks against your hair.
“I love it,” you say, voice muffled in his chest. “You remembered that café. And the photo.”
“Of course I remembered,” he says. “You went on about that croissant like it changed your life. And you almost cried when I asked you to delete that picture.”
“You had just come back from a mission,” you protest. “You looked like something out of a magazine.”
He huffs a soft laugh.
“I looked like I needed sleep,” he says. “You made me look better.”
You lean back enough to see his face. His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up.
“What’s the plan,” you ask.
He smiles, slow and a little nervous.
“It’s a surprise,” he says. “You trust me?”
You do. You trust him with more than your camera.
“Yeah,” you say. “I trust you.”
He kisses you then. Morning kiss, soft and unhurried, his mouth warm and familiar. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, thumb rubbing a small circle at the base of your skull.
It could easily turn into something more. His tongue slides against yours and you feel the first curl of heat in your belly. He draws back before either of you tumble down that path.
“Eat first,” he murmurs. “Then shower. Then get dressed. I’m stealing you for the whole day.”
“Bossy,” you say.
“You love it.”
You do.
You eat at the counter while he makes his own breakfast, moving around the small kitchen with an ease that comes from knowing where everything is. His mug always ends up next to yours. His keys on the hook under yours. His boots by the door.
It hits you in little waves sometimes, how much of him has quietly moved into your space.
Later, under the spray of the shower, you think about the strap and the coordinates and the way his eyes looked when he asked if you trusted him. By the time you are dressed, heart starting to patter with anticipation, he is waiting by the door.
He has dressed up a little. Not in anything dramatic, just a crisp button down under his jacket, dark jeans that fit him too well, watch that you bought him last year, the black band snug at his wrist.
He whistles low when he sees you.
“Damn,” he says. “Look at you.”
You smooth your hands over your clothes, suddenly self conscious.
“Is this ok,” you ask. “You didn’t tell me where we’re going.”
He lets his gaze travel over you slowly, openly appreciative, then meets your eyes again.
“You look perfect,” he says. “You always do.”
You feel heat climb your neck.
“Smooth,” you say.
He grins.
“I’m trying,” he admits.
He takes your hand in the hallway, fingers weaving through yours. He does not let go the whole ride, whether you are walking, on the train, cutting through a busy street. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, absent and steady.
You realize where you are going when you see the banners hung on the museum facade. High resolution prints of paintings and photographs, bold black text advertising the new exhibition.
Light and Conflict: Images From the Field.
You stop for a second on the sidewalk, watching a group of people filter through the doors.
“Kyle,” you say slowly.
“Before you say anything,” he cuts in, turning to face you. “You’ve been talking about this for weeks. You thought the tickets were sold out for today, which they were, online. So I came down on my lunch one day and queued up like a proper civilian.”
“You stood in line,” you say.
He shrugs.
“Wasn’t that bad,” he says. “Some old lady was very interested in my love life. I think she wanted to set me up with her granddaughter until I mentioned you. Then she wanted to see photos.”
You laugh and your chest hurts at the same time.
“You did all this just so we could go to an exhibit,” you say.
He slides his free hand into his jacket pocket.
“I did it so I could watch your face when you look at the photos,” he says simply. “Do you want to go in?”
You nod, throat tight.
“Yeah,” you say. “I really do.”
Inside, the air is cool and smells faintly like dust and old paper. The rooms are dim, light focused on the framed prints. You move slowly from piece to piece, reading captions, studying composition, thinking about the moment the shutter closed.
Sometimes you forget Kyle is there. He stays half a step behind you, giving you space. When you point out something technical that makes you excited, he listens like you are explaining magic. When an image is heavy, a child in a war zone, smoke rising over unfamiliar streets, his hand finds the small of your back, grounding you.
At one point you stop in front of a photograph of a soldier kneeling to tie the shoe of a laughing kid. The caption lists dates and a name. The angle of his body, the way his rifle hangs, the watch on his wrist, it all makes something twist in your chest.
“That could be you,” you say before you can stop yourself.
He is quiet for a second.
“Could be,” he says. “Sometimes it has been.”
You turn to look at him. His gaze is on the picture, expression thoughtful.
“When I was on that last deployment,” he says, voice low, “there was this boy who kept showing up whenever we patrolled the market. He’d bring his little sister. She had these bright yellow ribbons in her hair. We used to joke she was easier to spot than we were.”
“Did you ever take a picture,” you ask.
He shakes his head.
“Wasn’t my job,” he says. “Wish I had, sometimes. You would’ve liked her. She used to scold me for smoking near her.”
You smile, a little sad.
“She sounds smart.”
“She was,” he says. He looks at you then, eyes soft. “Saw a camera in a market stall once. Old thing, dust all over it. Thought about getting it for you. Then I thought I’d rather get home and let you pick your own.”
You swallow hard.
“You did get home,” you say. “You got home to me.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”
For a moment you just look at each other in the quiet hush of the gallery. Something heavy and bright passes between you. You reach up and fix the edge of his collar, fingers brushing his throat.
His eyes track the movement, then flick back to the photograph.
“Come on,” he says gently. “There are a few more rooms. I’ve got a surprise in the last one.”
“You already surprised me,” you say.
He smiles.
“Trust me,” he repeats. “You’ll like this one too.”
The last room is smaller, tucked away. The images are more abstract, long exposures and stark contrasts. In the far corner there is a small seating area, two narrow benches facing a wall of black and white portraits.
Kyle steers you there. When you get close enough, you see that the portraits are not part of the main exhibition. There is a printed card on the wall.
Local Photographers: Capturing Our City.
Your breath stutters.
Among the faces and alleyways and street scenes, there it is.
Your photograph.
The one you took on a rainy evening a few months ago. A stranger’s umbrella half open, caught in the wind, light reflecting off slick pavement, a blur of taillights in the distance. You remember standing there for ten minutes, waiting for the right combination of movement, almost giving up and then seeing it click into place.
You feel his hand tighten on yours.
“You submitted it,” you say, barely above a whisper.
“Technically you did,” he says. “You left the email open on your laptop and never sent it. So I clicked send. And then I emailed the gallery when you got the acceptance and you totally forgot you entered anything.”
You stare at your own work on the wall, framed and lit like it belongs there.
“She said they liked the way you handled the light,” he adds quietly. “The curator. She said they were excited to see more from you.”
Your eyes sting.
“Kyle,” you say. “I can’t believe you did this.”
He turns so he is facing you, your joined hands between you.
“I believe in you,” he says. “Even when you get in your own way. Especially then.”
You laugh once, a wet little sound, and launch yourself at him. He catches you easily, arms wrapping around you tight, your face buried in his neck.
“Thank you,” you say into his skin.
He kisses the side of your head.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he murmurs.
You spend a few minutes just standing there, letting it sink in. Later, when you are calmer, you make him take a photo of you standing beside the photograph. He insists on getting one of you from behind, looking at it, your shoulders straight, your hair falling just right.
“For the record,” he says. “Proof that I got to see this before the world catches up.”
“You think the world is going to care,” you ask, laughing.
He looks at you like you are the only thing in the room.
“I know I do,” he says. “That’s enough for me.”
The rest of the afternoon is easier. Lunch at a little place around the corner, his hand covering yours on the table while you talk about your favorite pieces. A walk through a park, your camera out this time, the new strap soft against your palm. He lets you take photos of him when the light filters through the trees, tilting his head at your direction, smiling with his eyes.
By the time you get home, your feet are sore in a good way and your heart feels like it could float out of your chest.
“Dinner,” he announces, dropping his keys in the bowl by the door. “Fancy or cozy?”
You kick your shoes off and flop onto the couch.
“Define fancy,” you say.
“Trousers I can’t nap in and a bottle of wine that costs more than a tenner,” he says.
“Define cozy,” you counter.
“Me in sweatpants, you in whatever that little set is I like, and something that comes with a side of bread,” he says. “We can light candles if you want atmosphere.”
You consider it for all of three seconds.
“Cozy,” you decide. “Definitely cozy.”
He grins.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
He orders from the place you both like, the one with the creamy pasta and the ridiculous garlic bread. While you wait, you change into the set he mentioned without telling him that is what you are doing. Soft shorts, thin camisole, nothing complicated.
When you come back into the living room, he is in sweatpants and a t shirt, playlist already low on the speakers, candles lit on the coffee table.
His eyes drag over you and he swallows.
“I see we’re committed to the cozy bit,” he says.
“Is that a problem,” you ask.
“Not even slightly,” he says.
Dinner is easy. You eat cross legged on the floor, plates balanced on the table, movie playing quietly in the background. He steals bites off your plate, pretends to be offended when you do the same. At some point he reaches out and runs his thumb over your bottom lip, catching a smear of sauce.
“Messy,” he says, amused.
“You like me messy,” you say without thinking.
His eyes darken.
“You have no idea,” he says.
The air shifts after that.
It starts small. His knee pressed against yours under the table. His hand resting on your thigh, thumb stroking slow circles. The way he looks at you when you say something, gaze dropping to your mouth more often, lingering on your collarbone where the camisole slips a little.
When you are done eating, he takes the plates to the kitchen, rinses them, pulls the curtains shut on his way back like he wants the world out.
You are curled on the couch now, legs tucked under you. He sinks down beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch.
“You tired,” he asks.
“Not really,” you say. “Full. Happy.”
“Good,” he says, voice softer. “That’s what I was going for.”
You tilt your head, studying him.
“What about you,” you ask.
He smiles, but there is something a little more serious under it.
“I’m the same,” he says. “Full. Happy. A little in love.”
Your heart stumbles.
“A little,” you repeat.
“Alright,” he says. “A lot.”
He shrugs like it is not a big deal. His eyes say it is the biggest.
You reach out and take his hand.
“I’m a lot in love too,” you say.
His fingers curl around yours, grip warm and firm.
“Yeah,” he says. “I kind of figured.”
You laugh, then fall quiet. The movie babbles in the background, some rom com you have seen a dozen times. The light from the TV washes over his face, blue then warm then blue again.
He squeezes your hand once more, then moves.
“Kyle,” you start, but the word turns into a little breath instead when he pulls you gently into his lap.
You straddle him without thinking, knees bracketing his hips, your hands on his shoulders. His thighs are solid under you, the warmth soaking through your thin shorts. You can feel the shift in him, the way his muscles tense, the way his breath catches.
His hands settle on your waist, fingers spreading over your back.
“You can tell me to stop,” he says, eyes searching your face. “Any time. You know that, yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say. “I know. I don’t want you to stop.”
Relief flickers over his features, chased quickly by something darker, hungrier.
“Good,” he murmurs.
He leans in and kisses you. Not the quick affectionate kisses from earlier, but something deeper. His mouth is hot, tongue tracing the seam of your lips until you open for him. The taste of wine and garlic and Kyle mixes with the low buzz already under your skin.
You shift, chasing the heat, and end up grinding against his lap without meaning to. His grip tightens, a little sound escaping him, half moan, half curse.
“Careful,” he says against your mouth. “I’ve been patient all day.”
“You have,” you breathe. “You’ve been so good.”
“Don’t say it like that,” he mutters. “Makes me want to be anything but.”
His hands slide up your sides, fingers tracing the line of your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through the thin fabric of the camisole. You shiver.
“Kyle,” you whisper.
“Yeah, love.”
“I want you.”
His eyes flare.
“You have me,” he says.
“I want you to touch me,” you clarify, heat rising in your face. “I want more.”
He swallows, throat working.
“Alright,” he says softly. “Let me.”
He lifts the hem of your top, palms gliding up under it to your bare skin. Your breath stutters at the cool slide of his hands, the callouses catching lightly. He pushes the fabric up and over your head, leaving you in just your bra and shorts.
His gaze drops.
“Fuck,” he says quietly. “You’re beautiful.”
You feel suddenly very bare, very seen. His eyes are not greedy exactly, but they are intent, taking in every inch of you like he is storing it away. He reaches out and runs his thumb along the edge of your bra, where it meets your skin at the top of your chest.
“Can I,” he asks.
You nod, heart pounding.
He unclasps it with an ease that makes you raise an eyebrow even as you let it slip down your arms.
“Practice,” he says when he sees your look. “On a pillow.”
You snort, then forget how to breathe entirely when he cups your breasts in his hands. His fingers are warm and firm, thumbs brushing over your nipples, teasing them into tight peaks.
The sensation punches a soft sound from your throat. You arch into his touch, fingers tightening on his shoulders.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Let me see you.”
He leans in and replaces his thumb with his mouth, tongue circling one nipple before he sucks it into the heat of his mouth. Your head tips back, a quiet moan spilling out.
His other hand works the other breast, rolling the nipple gently, then with more pressure. You feel heat pool low in your belly, your cunt already damp, the thin cotton of your shorts doing nothing to hide the way you are starting to press down onto him.
He pulls back a little, breathing harder now, lips wet.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, voice rough.
You glance down between you. There is no hiding the hard line of his cock under his sweatpants, the way it presses against you, thick and hot even through the layers of fabric.
“I think I’m starting to,” you say.
He lets out a quiet, helpless laugh.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
He kisses you again, and you feel it in every part of you. His hand slides down your back to cup your ass, pulling you closer, pressing you more firmly against him. You move with him, rocking your hips without meaning to, chasing the friction.
He groans into your mouth.
“Careful,” he says again, voice strained. “You keep doing that and I’m going to embarrass myself.”
“You won’t,” you say.
“You have a lot of faith,” he replies.
“I’ve seen you under fire,” you remind him. “You can handle a little grinding.”
He laughs, but it breaks off into another groan when you roll your hips deliberately this time, dragging your cunt along the length of him.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Alright. That’s how we’re playing it.”
His hands anchor you, guiding your movements, helping you find a rhythm that sends sparks up your spine. Every time you slide down, the pressure hits your clit just right, the friction edging you closer.
You are still wearing your shorts, but you can feel how soaked you are, the damp stickiness against him. He can feel it too.
“Fuck, baby,” he says, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second. “You’re already so wet for me.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “I’ve been thinking about this all day.”
He lifts his head again, eyes almost black now.
“Yeah,” he says. “Same.”
His hand slips between your bodies, fingers pressing against the front of your shorts, right over your clit. You jerk, a small cry leaving you.
“Is this ok,” he asks.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Don’t stop.”
“I’m not planning on it.”
He rubs slow circles, feeling the heat and slick through the fabric, his touch adding to the pressure of your movement. Your head spins, pleasure building fast, dragging at your nerves.
“Kyle,” you whine. “I’m going to…”
“You can,” he says. “You’re alright. Let go for me. I’ve got you.”
The confidence in his tone, the steady support of his hands, it pushes you over. Your orgasm rushes through you in a sharp, hot wave. Your muscles clench, your thighs tremble around his hips, your nails dig into his shoulders.
You bite his shoulder to muffle your cry without thinking. He groans, voice going low and rough.
“Shit,” he says. “That’s going to bruise.”
“Sorry,” you pant.
“Don’t be,” he says, kissing your neck. “I like it.”
He keeps holding you until the shaking eases and your breathing starts to slow. Then he strokes your back, palm moving up and down, soothing.
“You ok,” he asks quietly.
You nod, still a little dizzy.
“Yeah,” you say. “I’m very ok.”
“Good,” he says. “Can you keep going?”
You smile, lazy and satisfied and still wanting more.
“I want you,” you say. “Inside me.”
His breath catches.
“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Yeah.”
He shifts, easing you off his lap and onto the couch beside him. He moves quickly, pulling the coffee table back a little so you will not bump into it, grabbing for the small box on the shelf that you both know too well.
He looks at you as he opens it, checking.
“You still good,” he asks.
“Yes,” you say again, more sure now. “I want this. I want you.”
He nods, jaw tight.
“Lie back for me,” he says gently.
You do. The cushions are soft under your shoulders, the throw pillow cradling your head. He kneels between your legs, hands going to your shorts. He tugs them down your thighs, then off completely, leaving you bare and open to his gaze.
He stops for a second, eyes drifting over you.
“God,” he murmurs. “You are so beautiful.”
You feel your face heat, but you hold his gaze.
“So are you,” you say.
He smiles, then leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. Then another, higher up. His fingers trail after his mouth, gentle, teasing.
You gasp when he finally kisses you where you are aching, a soft press of his lips to your slick folds. His tongue flicks out briefly, sampling, and he groans.
“You taste unreal,” he says.
“Kyle,” you whisper, already sensitive from your earlier orgasm.
He looks up the line of your body to your face and you see the decision there.
“Next time,” he says. “I promise. I’m going to take my time with you next time. Right now if I get a proper taste of you I’m not going to be able to think straight.”
You are not sure you can think straight now, but the idea of a next time, the casual certainty, makes something warm uncurl in your chest.
He tears the foil packet open and rolls the condom onto himself with practiced care. When he pushes his sweatpants down, you cannot help your eyes dropping.
You have seen him naked before. You have felt him stretching you full, filling you, but there is always that little moment of awe. He is thick and long, the sight of him making your mouth go dry.
He notices your stare, a faint flush rising over his cheekbones.
“Still alright,” he asks.
“More than alright,” you say.
He leans over you, bracing one forearm beside your head, the other hand sliding under your thigh to hook your leg around his hip. The position pulls you open, lines you up with him perfectly.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says one more time.
“I will,” you say. “I promise.”
He nods once, then guides the head of his cock to your entrance. He pushes in slowly, letting you feel every inch, letting your body adjust around him.
The stretch pulls a soft cry from you. He is careful, watching your face, stopping when your brows knit.
“Breathe,” he reminds you. “You’re doing so well.”
You exhale, relax your muscles a little, and he slides deeper, filling you all the way. When his hips finally press flush to yours, you feel him everywhere, hot and solid and perfect.
“Christ,” he says through clenched teeth. “You’re so tight.”
“Because you’re big,” you manage, breathless.
He laughs once, the sound ragged.
“I’m not going to argue with that,” he says.
He stays still for a moment, giving you time to adjust. His thumb strokes your hip, grounding. You tilt your pelvis slightly, testing the sensation, and he curses under his breath.
“You ok,” you ask.
“I’m fantastic,” he says. “You tell me when.”
“Now,” you say immediately. “Please.”
He groans.
“Impatient,” he says fondly. “Alright.”
He draws back slowly until only the head of his cock is inside you, then pushes back in with a smooth roll of his hips. The friction makes your toes curl. He does it again, finding a rhythm, each thrust deep and deliberate.
The couch creaks softly under the movement. Your breath comes in short gasps, your hands finding his shoulders, his back, something to hold on to.
He watches you, eyes dark, taking in every expression, every sound.
“That feel good,” he asks quietly.
“Yes,” you gasp. “So good.”
He smiles, small and genuine.
“Good.”
He starts to move a little faster, the slap of his hips against yours more pronounced now. The angle shifts slightly and suddenly he is hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.
You cry out, nails digging into his back.
“There,” you gasp. “Right there, Kyle, please, don’t stop.”
He grits his teeth.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “Hold on to me.”
He slides his hand from your hip to between your legs, fingers finding your clit. He rubs it in time with his thrusts, the dual sensation making your whole body sing.
You feel the pleasure building again, fast and hot. Your limbs tingle, your stomach tightens, your breath comes in ragged pants.
He can feel it, the way your cunt starts to flutter around him, the way your thighs tremble.
“You’re close,” he says, voice rough. “I can feel you. Come on, love. Let me see you.”
The words push you over the edge.
Your second orgasm hits even harder than the first. You cry out, back arching off the couch, every muscle clenched. Your walls clamp down around him in strong pulses, milking him.
He groans, eyes squeezing shut for a brief second.
“Fuck,” he grits out. “That’s it. That’s my girl. You feel incredible.”
He keeps moving, chasing his own release now. His thrusts turn deeper, a little more erratic, the control fraying. The way you grip him, the heat and wet and the little whimpers spilling from your lips pull him right to the brink.
“Baby,” he says, voice strained. “I’m going to…”
“Come,” you say, pulling him down so your mouth is at his ear. “Please, Kyle. I want you to. I want to feel you.”
He curses softly, the sound caught between a groan and a prayer.
“Fuck, I love you,” he says, and then he is gone.
He drives into you one last time, as deep as he can, and his body tightens. You feel the throbbing pulses of his orgasm, the way he shudders over you, his breath hot against your neck.
He stays there for a moment, braced on his forearms, chest pressed to yours, the both of you panting, hearts racing. Then he shifts, careful, and eases out of you, making you gasp at the sensation.
He ties off the condom and tosses it in the small bin by the couch, then grabs the throw blanket and folds it once under your hips so you do not stick to the cushions. He is already moving to the bathroom when you try to sit up.
“Stay there,” he says over his shoulder. “I’ve got it.”
He comes back with a warm cloth, eyes soft and watchful. He cleans you up gently, checking your face for any sign of discomfort. When you twitch away from the oversensitivity, he presses a kiss to your knee.
“Sorry,” he says. “Almost done.”
You watch him, heart swelling again, this time with something quieter, deeper. Desire and affection and the clean, simple comfort of being cared for.
When he is satisfied, he drops the cloth in the laundry basket and returns to you. This time he does not stop until he is settled on the couch with you curled into his side, your leg thrown over his, your head tucked under his chin.
The movie is still playing, the credits long since rolled into something new. Neither of you cares.
He strokes your arm, fingers tracing idle lines on your skin.
“You alright,” he asks softly.
You tilt your head to look up at him.
“I’m perfect,” you say. “That was perfect.”
He smiles, a little sheepish, a little proud.
“Yeah,” he says. “It was pretty good.”
“Just pretty good,” you tease.
He laughs, bending to kiss your forehead.
“Alright,” he says. “It was amazing. You’re amazing.”
You close your eyes, resting your ear against his chest again, listening to the steady beat under your cheek.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“For what,” he asks. “Good sex?”
“For all of it,” you say. “For the museum. For sending the email I was too scared to send. For the strap and the coffee and the bracelet and getting garlic on purpose even though you knew you were going to kiss me later.”
He chuckles.
“I brought mints,” he says. “I’m thoughtful like that.”
“You really are,” you say. “You make it very easy to be in love with you.”
His arm tightens around you.
“Yeah,” he says after a second. “You too.”
You smile, eyes still closed.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Kyle,” you murmur.
He kisses your hair.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, love,” he says. “Same time next year?”
“Only if you let me plan something,” you say.
He pretends to think about it.
“I can probably manage that,” he says. “As long as it ends like this.”
“It will,” you say. “Count on it.”
You feel him smile against your forehead.
“I do,” he says.
The candles burn low, the room soft around you. Outside, the city pulses on. Inside, wrapped in Kyle’s arms, your body pleasantly aching and your future quietly expanded by the sight of your own work on the wall, you let yourself drift, full and happy and very, very loved.
