slip into you, slip into me
— or the one where you and Spencer get snowed in inside your apartment but neither of you really mind. [Spencer Reid x fem!reader]
Word Count: 5.3K. Proof-read.
Content Warning: Content Warnings: (18+ MDNI) FLUFF + SMUT. SECOND-PERSON POV. No use of Y/N. Where do I start, oh my God... Established relationship, oral (F!receiving), munch!Spencer at his finest, overstimulation, oral fixation, if you squint (Spencer is for once the perpetrator of that), unprotected p-in-v sex, fluffy smut — the tooth-rotting kind, submissive!Spencer undertones but the ground is mostly pretty even, trust me, Spencer Reid is a tease™, reader is also a tease™, a lot of praise because obviously?, they are so in love, it makes me sick.
Author’s Note: Getting snowed in for a week resulted in whatever this is. I like to call it what-happens-when-my-need-for-Spencer-gets-unbearable. I mean it when I say that I really try to keep my fics a normal length but I just cannot seem to, clearly. Same with them being mostly descriptive and not dialogue-heavy. I am trying to work on it but there is only so much that I can do without ruining my style completely. Oh, and I thought to mention that the gifs that I use are the Spencer era that I picture for each fic, but of course, that is my personal touch and no one needs to abide by it. That is all, I guess. Hope that you enjoy this because I fear what I have to offer next is going to be... A Lot. GIF CREDIT @reidgif/@dilfreid on Twitter. Title inspired by Not For Radio’s Slip.
“I told you we should’ve stayed over at yours, instead.” You sigh, settling further down against the mattress as Spencer practically wraps himself around you, a rather futile attempt at getting even closer to you, if that was possible.
Only it wasn’t.
Not in your tiny (that is, compared to his) bed that he can barely stretch his limbs or turn around in without his socked feet escaping the warmth of the covers and dangling off of the furthest edge of the mattress. He’s so tall for it, it’s almost comical.
Even now, with his right leg tossed over your hip and his face buried against your neck, he’s struggling to stay in place and cover himself properly.
“Mm-mm, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” His breath is hot where it hits your neck, makes warmth rise from there to your cheeks until they overheat. It has nothing to do with the cosiness of the blankets and the comforter you’re under, and everything to do with his half-sleepy murmurs and butterfly kisses on your shoulder that make your stomach flip, “I’ve never been more comfortable and warm in my life.”
Your pointed stare, which he feels well enough and doesn’t actually have to open his eyes to see, does not faze him at all. His words come out muffled against the soft bareness of your skin, laced with the most loving hint of a smile, “You can glare at me all you wish. Doesn’t change the fact that it’s true.”
You can’t help but roll your eyes at that, yet allow him to pull you in closer. And closer. Still.
“Right, I’m sure that having to make yourself fit in a bed that barely accommodates my size and stretching needs and having to sleep almost fully clothed because the radiator in my apartment is faulty, all in the wake of a snowstorm, is the most comfortable and warmest you’ve ever been. Sure it is, Spencer.”
Spencer doesn’t respond to your light teasing, not immediately. When he does, he simply shrugs and mutters something unintelligible, still half-asleep, face buried on your neck. Something along the lines of — It actually might be, yeah.
It’s easy for you to melt further at that, and so you turn to glance outside the window, then. Snow is falling just as steadily as it did last night, although kinder and lighter now, covering rooftops and streets in a blanket of white, crushed velvet. You can hear faint laughter, child-like and joyous, from the frontside of nearby buildings where families must’ve brought their children out so they can celebrate this wintry gift safely. Besides that, the rest of the world outside seems quiet enough, matching the innate mood of such a day completely.
The heavy, but most importantly, unanticipated snowstorm last night had left you both practically stranded, for all intents and purposes, at your apartment. Spencer had found it more practical to have dinner there before you went on to visit the classical film festival you’d been planning to for weeks. He did so, mainly because he’d forgotten to stock up on groceries, what with the huge amount of paperwork the BAU had to tackle that past week. You’d argued that you could grab what you needed from yours and head to his to cook and enjoy dinner there, anyway, since you’d be heading out next. Only, of course, you didn’t get to.
You’d always preferred his apartment as a hang-out spot to your own — it was cosier, spacier, filled with just enough of all kinds of his interests to pass the time. Plus, you’d always slept better there. Spencer didn’t think it had so much to do with the place, rather than the fact you got to sleep together (in any possible way), but you were certain enough it did. He doesn’t mind you craving his personal space that much, though, quite the contrary. Still, he doesn’t seem to miss it as much as you do, now that you’d have to spend the day tucked away here instead of there. Until the streets were clear enough, at least.
He catches you off-guard mid-yawning, breaking you out of your trance, turning around with you inside his embrace so that you’re now lying face to face with each other, bodies flush together still.
“Mhm, you know,” He starts, brushing his way down from your cheek to your neck with his nose sweetly, “for someone who’s so worried about the cold, you’ve barely managed to shield yourself from it properly.”
He’s referring to the fact you’re clad in just a lilac shirt of his (your favourite one, you’d simply announced back when you’d snatched it from his wardrobe to put it on, much to his content), a pair of pyjama shorts, and white, fuzzy socks that barely make it up to your calves. He, on the other hand, had taken advantage of the pyjamas he’d thankfully once left behind there — dark flannel pants and a ridiculously old white t-shirt he had no idea what the stamp said before it met its untimely demise — as well as his grey cardigan he’d worn under his coat yesterday.
“I believe I was referring to your warmth levels, not mine,” You half-hum, half-giggle as you succumb to his gentle affection. Once he’s finally facing you, loving hazel eyes and messy fringe still carrying the weight of sleep, you wrap your arms around his neck. “I’ve never had much trouble with the cold.”
“You coughed four times in your sleep last night.” A lazy hint of a half-smile appears on his lips when you scoff, trying to claim that doesn’t mean anything. It only becomes bigger when he notices you’re almost flustered, reminded of how carefully he pays attention to you during all states of consciousness. “You wouldn’t really know that, actually, is my point. Keeping yourself exposed to cold temperatures first weakens your immune system’s defences which then makes you susceptible to viral infections, the onset of symptoms of which can vary anywhere from one to up to fourteen days from initial exposure…” He pulls the fabric of his shirt further down your hips, to prove a point, “…which is why this isn’t a proper outfit for the—uhm, I want to say, thirty degrees outside and sixty degrees—that is, thanks to your faulty radiator—inside temperature in your apartment right now.”
“And good morning to you, too, beautiful.” You brush his fringe away from his eyes kindly, failing to stifle your grin. He turns, cheeks tinted a light pink, kissing the crook of your elbow over your shirt pliantly as you play with his hair. You’d been surprised at his choice of haircut all those months ago — I thought I’d try something short but different this time, he’d explained, much too worried for your liking at what you’d have to say — though not at all unpleasantly; that’d be impossible when Spencer is the most beautiful man you’ve ever known, no matter what his hair looks like. Still, you inwardly rejoice when you notice his hair starting to curl at the sides once again. “Can you please talk to me about something more exciting than how prone I am to catching a cold now that you’re awake?”
“Good morning, honey,” He kisses you just because, a small, tender peck against your lips like he does every morning. “I definitely could. Although I’d be more inclined to do so if you please did not make us get out of bed.”
“Don’t we have to?” You ask, fingers still grazing his scalp softly. “You’ve said it before. Something about staying in bed longer than you have to after waking up disrupting your circadian rhythm…”
“A day of sleeping in won’t be detrimental to our sleep health, baby,” He coaxes as you trail off, all quiet and whispery, leaning his weight forward. “The weather calls for it, anyway. Give me another reason.”
“Breakfast?” You try, though you’re glad to sink back on the mattress when he finally climbs on top of you. “I’ve got blueberries in the fridge for your favourite pancakes.”
“Not hungry.” His mouth finds your neck, then your jawline, before it lingers over your own. “What else?”
Your mind blanks momentarily. He’s infinitely pretty where he looms over you, so beautifully close, cast in white light and endless gentleness, pressing against you carefully yet persistently enough.
“Well... I haven’t brushed my teeth.”
Spencer smiles fondly, and once again, you feel it more than see it given his proximity. He wastes no time before he presses his mouth to yours between each sentence, “Don’t care. I love you. Morning breath and all. Anything else?”
“…I’m bored?”
That’s when he quirks an eyebrow and leans back just enough, the covers sliding down to his waist.
“Oh, that is a very important reason.”
You watch as he toys with your shirt’s buttons, lowering his head against your chest, resting his chin there. You almost pull him back up to you, craving to feel the plumpness of his kiss-bitten lips against yours again.
“But…” He says then, the syllable stressed by a gentle pull of your last button. Then, the second to last one. “I’m sure we can find something to do about it without getting out of bed.”
He leans forward then, buries his face against your lower abdomen where he lavishes the soft protrusion of skin with eager affection.
Oh.
“There are two pens and the five latest editions of the New York Times on the nightstand.”
It was sort of your tradition to solve the crossword puzzles together whenever you had the chance, or at least some of them. Spencer even changed his habit of checking the crossword puzzle first thing in the morning, just in case you might end up solving it together later on that day.
Still, his response to your light jest comes in a small groan against your palm. He looks up at you, eyes wide in that signature way that reminds you he’s ruined you and you’re glad this is the case.
“That’s not what I had in mind,” He trails his way up higher, kissing and nuzzling against the bare skin he’s met with as he unbuttons the rest of your shirt and you let him. “Not right now, at least.”
You hum, voice low yet warm. “And what exactly is it that you have in mind?”
He kisses his way down to your stomach once more, only now his hands are also travelling upwards, caressing the curves of your legs until they hook under the waist pant of your pyjama shorts.
He pushes it down just enough, just so that his warm breath hitting your navel can make your own catch in your throat.
The playful glint in his eyes as he stares up at you, comfortable as ever from where you are most sensitive, is as unmistakable as his bargain. But like always, he asks. Just to ask. Because he loves to and he knows you love that he does.
“…Made my point yet?”
“Not quite.” Your hand disappears between his messy locks, tugging at them just enough for the molten gold in his eyes to darken. “Care to elaborate a little more?”
“So you want me to beg? Is that what this is about, honey?”
“Maybe.” You urge, arching into his touch almost involuntarily as he nips the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. “Would you?”
Spencer struggles to bite back his grin, already following your lead where your hips tilt, accommodating the removal of your shorts and underwear. His eyes remain locked on yours the whole time, even when you’ve kicked the fabrics between the duvet and the sheets, and your hands battle with the latter for anchoring.
“You know the answer to that, baby.” He breathes over your thundering pulse point, his free hand skimming its way further upwards still, until he finds your pooling heat. He does not shy away from demonstrating how much he means it, wrapping his pretty mouth around your fingertips, his cheeks hollowing around them. You gasp, hips twitching, and Spencer simply chuckles around your digits. “I can always beg for you.”
And he’s already rushing to prove his point as he buries his face between your thighs, meeting you halfway. He starts slowly, his lips caressing your throbbing bundle of nerves to tease those first choked moans out from you, the ones that you offer him when he takes his time with you. Today calls for that kind of lavishing, the coaxing of pleasure that comes in languid waves, building the burning tension in your body until it demands to overwhelm each part of you, each muscle, each nerve.
“Spencer.”
He’s quick to keep your legs apart when you struggle to do so yourself, even more when he hums in response to your hushed whimper of his name, his hands grabbing onto the plush of your hips, marking the flesh just so.
His tongue delves between your slick folds, mouth wrapping around you so completely that it both feels and looks overwhelming. He laves at you fervently, with an eagerness so profound, it casts you breathless. You’re a mess because of it but so is he — hungry moans against your damp skin turning into unabashed whines. Spencer thinks he’ll never get enough of how you taste, he could spend hours upon hours pleasing you, and in turn, discovering new realms of pleasure for himself.
It becomes clearer and clearer that this is exactly wha he plans to do, for he wasn’t lying about how gladly he’d beg for you time and time again.
He moves against you as if he is a puppet on a string, pushing and pulling according to your wishes, until every last thought inside your head, including the passional warning of your undoing, vanishes completely and you snap before he can bend you anymore.
Still, he doesn’t stop.
He shushes you, surely, lips trailing towards the spots his nails had dug in order to steady you for his taking, whispers of praise and encouragement following each loving kiss. Sweat clings his messy locks to his forehead, sunlight painting him bright and soft at the edges as you half-dazedly gaze down upon him.
Your chest rises and falls, breath coming in pants, as you call for him to return on top of you. He’s immovable, head shaking deliriously against your stomach.
“Not yet, angel. Give me one more. Just one more, like this.” He pleads, audaciously, as if he won’t have his way with you, anyway. As if he doesn’t have you wrapped around his finger, as if you’re not merciless in your need to be doted on by him. Your doe-like gaze is unblinking as he returns between your thighs, lips pressing together in his struggle to accommodate your needs. He’s always undeniably careful, even when he’s yearning for you. Perhaps even more so then. “Let me feel you come apart once more, just like this.”
“Mhm—Yes, Spencer. Please.”
The way that he moans against your mound makes you clench around thin air, hips pressing down against the tangled-up sheets desperately.
“Easy, baby, I’ve got you.” He promises, voice husky with need and affection muffled against your skin, “Here, let me—” A squeal passes through your own lips as he positions your thighs over his shoulders, making you cling onto him by his shoulders. “There we go, honey. Alright?”
You croon in acknowledgement, thumbing at the nape of his neck. He offers you a warm, honest smile, one that says he’s proud of making a mess out of you. One that says he’s happy to not yet be done with you.
“Perfect girl, right where I want you…” He murmurs, all swooning and sweet, thumbing half-formed love letters on your thighs until you’re pliant and steady for him once more, “Right where you want to be, huh?”
Your words barely make it past your lips as he returns to your clit, sucking on it lightly at first, teasing you into further submission, before he indulges in you even more. Your head lolls back against your pillow and you fist at the fabric of his cardigan to keep yourself in place, no matter how pointless it seems.
Spencer’s even more relentless with you this time around. He can’t help it, won’t apologise for it. Not when you taste so good, not when this is the closest thing to heaven he’s ever going to know. His tongue is merciless as it swipes up and down, back and forth, ‘causing you to squirm against his face with abandon. When your eyes meet once more, your gaze carries an aching amount of need that can’t help but be translated in the slight rocking of your hips against his face.
Spencer’s eyes fall shut as your thighs practically imprison him between them, your body coming alive in ways that your consciousness cannot care to control. Not when the promise of what’s to come lingers across every part of your body.
“Fuck, Spencer, I’m—” What you’re trying to tell him is that you’re sorry, unbearably apologetic as you are to have him flush between your thighs so tightly, his cheeks smudged by the thickness of your thighs.
But Spencer won’t have that happen, won’t have you go there when he’s exactly where he wants to be. He’s surrounded by your essence, feeling it against his lips, his nose, his body, and it’s the most perfect kind of bliss he could fathom.
And so he moans against you, breathing something unintelligible where he fucks you with his mouth, tongue diving deeper where you need him most, following the pace you’ve set for it with your thrusts. He doesn’t allow you to question his level of comfort even for a second, not when he becomes louder every time your thighs twitch around him, caging him against your core completely. He’s begging to dissolve against you, kissing and lapping at you until your mouth falls open into that divine shape, until you’re cursing and praising, until you melt against him in a way that deprives him of his sanity.
On his tongue, you are all honey and warmth, your climax washing over you in tidal waves that he’s glad to sink under. He’s filled with you, doesn’t miss a single one of your throbbing thrusts with his wide, pleading mouth. He takes and takes and takes until you’re writhing, until you’re silently begging for mercy which he merely offers because he knows you need him closer to you. Still.
He doesn’t rise on top of you just yet, no. He still has inches of skin to litter with praise and the lightest of touches, sore muscles he has to tend to with tender caresses just enough to ensure you’re cherished with placidness.
“Right here, sweet girl. I’m right here with you.” He shushes you with soft kisses against your neck when you pull him closer, trembling legs still hovering uselessly around his waist. “Breathe for me.”
But you’re not looking to breathe, not really.
As the haze of your second orgasm abandons you and clarity settles across your senses, all you’re looking for is to burn around him entirely, to feel him inside of you, to have him take you again until your limbs become feather-light and you feel like you’re floating.
You bring his forehead against yours, brush your lips against each other’s. You glance between his eyes shyly, as if you’re too embarrassed of the charming disarray surrounding you both inside your room, all the tossing and turning, the pushing and pulling it’s been a witness to.
Spencer can’t help the amusement that clouds his glowing countenance at the state he’s put you in, the way he’s tenderly ruined you.
“Are you with me, angel girl?” He leaves a soft kiss on the tip of your nose, then the top of your upper lip, “I haven’t lost you, have I now?”
That’s when you scoff, when you roll your eyes pointedly (or at least attempt to do so, rather poorly.) In reality, his humorous teasing only pleases you further. It shows, as it always does, that he cares about you in ways that words cannot describe. That his need and his love for you is as compassionate as it is fervent in its intensity.
You make your point known by snapping the button of his cardigan open. “Off?”
“If you say so.” He obliges, helping you push the material off of his shoulders, and carelessly towards the edge of the bed. His t-shirt comes next, followed by his trousers. When he’s left only in his underwear, he gasps at the feeling of your bare core swiping against his clothed one. Gently, he lays you back down, pulling away just enough to undress himself without ruining the moment unceremoniously.
He’s hard and hot where he brushes against your thigh, so much so that you whimper as he settles over you.
“Hey. Look at me, sweetness,” You do so, although your eyes are still glossy and half-closed, your skin shivering slightly. “You’re really sensitive right now. Are you sure this is what you want?”
He asks you, half-proudly, half-apologetically, but more than anything, with complete earnestness. It’s in his nature to do so. He’d be damned if he ever pushed you over an edge he cared more than anything for, that of your comfort.
“You know well enough I can handle it,” You don’t have to ponder on it at all when you speak, biting back a loving smile. “Or is it that you want me to beg, too?”
“Of course, you can, baby.” Spencer chuckles. The sound vibrates against your skin where he leans to press his lips against your collarbone. “No, not right now. I’m doing all the begging today, right?” He muses, pulling the fabric of his shirt from your body ever so slowly until you’re completely bare underneath him. “Right?”
“That’s right.”
“So, let me beg…” His voice takes on a low, seductive tone. You swallow hard, new-found warmth blooming inside your stomach, as he lines himself at your entrance. “Are you going to let me take care of you, baby?”
But this is a game you’re apparently losing at, anyway, since a desperate plea leaves you the moment his tip brushes against your slick.
Spencer laughs. He lifts his head from the crook of your neck to look right at you, prolonging your agony by choosing to brush hair away from your face gently.
“Oh, angel. What happened to no begging for you?”
“You know I don’t mind begging, either,” You admit, mouth ghosting over his jaw. A beat passes with you staring at him as he leans back, his eyes hazy with desire. Then, you whisper against his ear, “Please, Spencer. Fuck me?”
His cock twitches where it begs to slip inside of you, his resolve coming far too close to snapping at your words. Still, he maintains his control by seizing the opportunity to kiss the crudeness out of you, mouth pressing against yours hard and hot.
He takes hold of your legs, wrapping them around his middle so that you’re as close as you can be. From the way you’re looking at him, he knows it’s exactly what you both need, and that fact, that instant recognition makes both of your insides burn.
“You’re going to keep your legs wrapped around me the whole time, okay?” You immediately nod, your hips rising on instinct as he steadies himself over you. “I will give you exactly what you want by having you like this. You know why?” You shake your head, blinking up at him. He lowers his forehead to rest on top of yours, “Because you were so good for me, honey. You were perfect. You always are.” His tip pushes in just so as his lips skim your temple. They press on the skin lightly. “And I’ll always give you what you deserve.” He sinks into you, inch by inch, slipping into your warmth, finding no resistance due to how soaked you are as you engulf him completely. “Always.”
He doesn’t move immediately, although he craves to just as much as you do. It’s not just about restraint, but mostly about savouring this. Taking his time with you. Feeling you surround him entirely. His breath is heavy as it coats your quivering skin, as your hardened nipples brush against his where your chests rise and fall together. You hug him close to you, allow him to christen you with as much affection as he wishes to before he is ready to make love to you.
When he looks up at you, both of your eyes are full of palpable devotion that only intensifies the moment that he thrusts forward, rocking his hips against yours.
Like this, it’s impossible to know where either of you begins and ends. Each part of you stains each part of the other. And God, do you love it. You grab onto his waist with one hand, as the other loops around his neck. He, on the other hand, has his forearms pressed on either side of your head against your pillow, so that he surrounds you completely.
As he moves, first slow and gentle, then faster and with more eagerness, he sinks on top of you even more the deeper his cock buries inside of you. It’s a revelatory kind of madness, one that you both respond to in the same way — by more so grinding against each other than anything else.
“Fuck, you have no idea…”
He claims, but goodness, you do.
You’re achingly tender as you stretch to his every beckoning, only to clench around him when he proves how much he loves the feeling. Pleasure overflows inside of you, fills you to the brim as you moan against the skin of his shoulder.
“You’re perfect, Spencer—”
“Not as perfect as you, honey—”
His right arm slips further down the mattress until it finds your waist. It twins around it, aiding your indulgent arching, as he picks up his pace determinedly, not a single inch of your bodies remaining apart as his thrusts take on a steady rhythm which has the sole purpose of making the both of you melt further against each other.
When he tries to kiss you, it’s to no avail. You’ve already buried your face against his neck, murmuring the same sentence over and over again in between the softest nips and mewls — I love you, I love you, I love you.
It only spurs him on further, the evidence of his steadfast passion accentuated by the obscene sounds emanating from between you. White-hot pleasure starts building up within you as he drives himself into you with careful precision, slow enough so that the extent of your sensitivity renders you impossibly speechless, and lures him closer to his own undoing.
“Fuck, that’s it—” You moan brokenly, shuddering as your muscles clench around his hips, the heels of your feet skimming against the back of his thighs as he pins you to the mattress. “Right there, Spencer.”
“I know, baby. Fuck, I know—” He smiles, leaning back just enough to nudge your face towards his, and finally kiss you. The moment your lips meet and move in tandem with the rocking of your hips, you clench around his length, heat pooling dangerously lower and lower as your eyes roll back. Spencer tilts his body just the right way so that your clit is stimulated with his every thrust, abandoning your waist to lock both of your hands together on the pillows.
He has one request for you as he gets you closer to the edge. He whispers it softly against your lips, “Let me look at you when you come for me, sweet girl. Please?”
Moist burns behind your eyes as your body responds to his call and your hands tighten around his. And just like that, the coil of fiery pleasure snaps, and your sanity slips away from you as you come, walls fluttering mercilessly around Spencer’s cock.
It’s that image and those eyes, those beautiful, tender eyes of yours that look into him with striking vulnerability, carrying infinite tenderness, that overwhelm him to the point of ecstasy. He’s unable to fight it, has no reason to do so anymore, and so he rewards you with a raspy, broken grunt of your name as he ruts forth firmly twice, spilling himself inside of you. You’re fawning at the sight of his larger frame sinking against your molten one as he rides out the remnants of his orgasm, still half-delirious yourself.
Silence surrounds you then. It’s abrupt but more than pleasant, a warm quietness that fits the sight of your spent, entangled bodies just as much as it does the snowy landscape outside. You’ve both slipped into a lavish peacefulness that’s too heavenly to be disrupted. You want nothing more than to remain entrapped in it for as long as possible.
Stained with the gentleness of post-coital bliss, you could’ve sworn that you were the first to come to — only Spencer’s already laying next to you on his side, briefs pulled over his softening-cock haphazardly, arm looped around your waist where he’s covered your body with the duvet.
“Do not move.” You’re more than inclined to follow his orders, sore as you are from the onslaught of pleasure you’d welcomed from him. He pulls the fabric of his shirt over your shoulders as well as he can, though you’d much rather cling to him than to the covers or his shirt.
He doesn’t complain about it, though. Instead, he pulls you closer, brushing strands of hair behind your shoulder and kissing your heated skin wherever.
“Too warm?”
“Just enough.”
He nods gently at you, hands reaching down to your thighs, where he starts massaging the tender skin absentmindedly.
You let him do so for a while, until he calls for you, his voice a simple breathy kiss against your ear.
“Sweet girl?”
“Mhm?”
“Where did you say you kept those copies of the New York Times?”
You beam at him when you open your eyes fully, met with a disheveled and soft figure equal to yours that makes your heart flutter, “Bottom drawer to your right.”
You bargain with him on who shall go first, as well as who shall solve more of them quicker. You promise to cook him his favourite pancakes and stay in bed until the afternoon, no matter what, if he wins. He promises you an hour-long bath and to only read the novels that you choose today, if you do.
To his credit, he manages to get through four of the puzzles before he breaks his record of five-and-a-half-minutes solving time, which means he doesn’t go too easy on you. And although you’ve always been an especially sore loser, you’re not too sore a one when you spend the rest of the day tucked inside his warm embrace, shielded from the cold and the frozen, snow-covered city outside your window.
It helps that he does draw that hour-long bath for you, anyway.
It helps that he does forsake his preference for Hemingway in front of your own for Fitzgerald when he reads two of his novels to you that night until you fall asleep, feeling content, loved, and warm beyond words.
And it does help that he coaxes your slipping into that tender version of intimacy you’re both needy for, more than happy to beg for you to, more than at peace with the fact that only you can ever tear his resolve apart the way you do so without even trying, twice more that day.
The day calls for it, anyway.
