“I love that sound,” she giggled.
Their first kiss was soft—a question and an answer rolled into one. Then another, deeper, her hand sliding to the nape of his neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. The world outside the window faded to nothing.
He smiled, his fingers stilling on the curve of her waist. “I’m just… looking.”
“You love chaos,” he countered, kissing the corner of her mouth.
Afterward, there was no awkward scramble for clothes. He pulled the duvet over them, and she tucked her cold feet between his calves. He yelped. She laughed.
She propped herself up on an elbow, her hair a chaotic halo against the pillow. “Then stop looking and come here.”
He moved lower, lips tracing a path down her throat, across her collarbone. She arched into him, a soft gasp escaping when he found the spot just below her ear. His hands, slightly calloused from fixing the leaky faucet that morning, were surprisingly tender as they explored the familiar landscape of her body. He knew the map by heart: the dip of her lower back, the ticklish spot on her ribs, the way she trembled when his thumb brushed her inner thigh.