You’re lying on the bed, scrolling through your phone, trying to act normal. He suddenly flops beside you, one arm instantly sliding across your chest like he owns the spot. His palm cups you, squeezing lightly.

“Soft cushions” he murmurs, grinning at your shocked face.

You swat his hand. “Oye! Stop calling them that, shameless!”

He laughs, not moving his hand an inch. Instead, he squeezes again, firmer this time. “Shameless? No. Honest. They’re soft, warm, and perfect. My soft cushions. Only mine.”

You pout, cheeks hot. “Don’t—” but your voice fades when he leans closer, his lips brushing your jaw, his thumb flicking across your sensitive spot.

“C’mon,” he whispers, eyes dark with mischief, “don’t pretend you don’t love it. Look how your body reacts the second I touch you.” He nips at your earlobe, hand kneading slowly, deliberately.

You try to protest but end up letting out a breathy sigh. He smirks against your skin. “See? My cushions are enjoying me already.”

Sliding lower, his kisses trail down your neck, across your collarbone, until he hovers just above them. He looks up at you, teasing glint in his eyes. “Should I rest my head? Or… should I play more?”

Before you answer, his mouth closes over one, sucking lightly, while his other hand squeezes the other with a steady rhythm. You gasp, arching toward him.

He pulls back just enough to murmur, “Perfect pillows… for my head, my hands, my lips. And I’m never letting anyone else touch them. Ever.” His tongue flicks, slow and deliberate, drawing another helpless sound from you.

Your fingers clutch at his hair, torn between embarrassment and need. He chuckles against your skin. “Good girl. Let me enjoy my cushions properly.”

His mouth lingers on your skin, sucking harder now, tongue circling around your nipple until it stiffens under the wet attention. He pinches the other gently between his fingers, rolling it with deliberate slowness.

You can’t help the way your back arches, chest pressing deeper into his mouth. He smirks at your helpless reaction, pulling back just enough to murmur against your flushed skin:

“Hmm… my soft cushions turn hard when I play with them. You feel that? That’s all for me.”

He shifts his weight, sliding his knee between your thighs, spreading them open just enough. The rough press of his jeans grazes your heat through your clothes, making you gasp.

“You’re already warm here too…” he teases, grinding his knee up slightly. “Boobs love me… and so does your pussy.”

Your breath stutters, a whimper escaping before you can stop it. He chuckles darkly, lips finding the other breast now, sucking harder, leaving wet marks that bloom on your skin like his signature.

“Mine,” he growls between kisses. “Every inch of you.”

One hand slips lower, trailing over your stomach until he reaches the waistband of your bottoms. He pauses, looking at you with that dangerous grin. “Should I keep playing with my cushions… or find out how soaked you already are?”

His thumb presses just above your clit through the fabric, making you buck up involuntarily. He grins wider. “Ahh… I think I got my answer.”

After that fiery morning, the two of you finally drag yourselves out of bed. You’re sore, a little wobbly, but glowing and he notices. He smirks, slipping an arm around your waist to steady you.

“Careful, baby. Can’t have my girl falling because I fucked her too good.” He presses a kiss to your temple, his hand deliberately low on your hip.

While you’re brushing your teeth, he sneaks up behind, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on your shoulder. “You look so cute like this. My messy haired girl.” He kisses your cheek, refusing to let go even as you elbow him.

At breakfast, he won’t stop staring at you. His leg brushes yours under the table, and every now and then, he leans in to whisper filthy little things that make you choke on your food.

“You know,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, “those soft cushions of yours are all I could think about while eating.”

You glare, blushing, and he just grins, feeding you a bite of his toast like nothing happened.

Throughout the day, he keeps touching you innocently in public, but with intention. His hand resting at the small of your back. His thumb grazes your palm when you walk together. Even just brushing your hair away from your face like you’re fragile.

But when you’re alone, the sweetness flips into teasing possessiveness. He backs you against a wall, caging you in with his arms, lips ghosting over yours. “You don’t get to wear this face outside. This is mine. My sunshine glows only mine to see.”

If you roll your eyes, he only kisses you harder until you’re breathless.

And at night, when you’re finally curled into bed again, he spoons you close, one hand possessively cupping your boob, the other gripping your waist. “The whole day, I kept thinking… what if someone else touched you like I do?” His voice is husky, almost a growl.

You turn to face him, about to tease but he silences you with a kiss, slow and deep, before whispering, “No one gets to. You’re mine, sunshine. Always.”

I can’t stop watching her. It’s ridiculous I finished and now I’m supposed to be normal, but my eyes keep finding her like a magnet. She moves, I move; she laughs, something in my chest softens. I don’t say it out loud because I’m stubborn like that, but inside I’m cataloguing everything: the way her hair falls, the little crease by her smile, how her collarbone catches the light. It’s all mine to remember.

When I slide an arm around her waist at the sink, it’s not possessive in a bad way — it’s a reflex. I want her steady, I want to feel her close. My palm rests on her hip and even that small contact calms me. People might see it as clingy; I call it claiming my peace. She’s been mine in text and voice for so long — now I get the satisfaction of actually holding the space she takes up in my chest.

Every time I brush her hair back or steal a bite of her toast, something stupid and sweet clicks inside me: I’m taking care of her. Heaviness from responsibilities falls off a little when she’s there to tease me, when she gives me that soft, exasperated look. I like being the one she can irritate and also the one she expects comfort from. It makes me feel grown-up and childish in the same breath.

When we walk and my leg bumps hers under the table, it’s an excuse to feel her. The little electric shocks of contact make me grin like an idiot. I whisper something filthy in her ear because I can’t help it the private jokes, the naughty lines, the way she squirms it’s like a language only we speak. If anyone overheard, they’d think we’re just kids playing; they’d be half right. This play is how I say “I want you” without having to write it on a billboard.

There’s a darker part too: the tiny stab of jealousy that shows its face when his eyes flick toward some stranger. I clamp down on it, because I don’t want to make her feel small. Instead I turn it into teasing back against the wall, breath hot in her ear and watch her flush. It works: she forgets whatever little breeze tried to brush her attention away, and all I want is for her to feel safe and claimed by me in the quietest way possible.

When she rolls her eyes at me, I take it as permission to be ridiculous. I’ll kiss her harder; I’ll make her laugh until she’s breathless. There’s this selfish part that swims through every sweet thing I do: I want her to remember who made her smile like that. I want to be the stupid reason she texts a heart emoji later when she’s alone.

At night when we curl up, my hand finds its place without thinking. It’s not only hunger it’s reassurance. I rest my cheek on her chest and listen to her breathe, like a litany. It reminds me she’s there, actually there. The fear that this could be fragile that something could tear it makes me protective. I smother that fear with kisses and little promises in a hoarse voice: nothing will touch her. Not on my watch.

Sometimes I joke and act like I don’t need anyone. That’s easier. But when I’m alone later and the day slows down, I replay everything she did: the way she let me be a mess, the way she didn’t make me hide the tired bits. It fills a hollow I didn’t know I had. It scares me how much I want this to be forever, but it also makes me proud proud that she chose me, that she lets me be the sticky, messy, clingy version of myself for her.

So I keep being clingy. I keep teasing. I keep touching. It’s not about ownership as much as it is about anchoring: she’s my anchor now, and I’ll remind myself of that every time I can reach for her. My love, my sunshine. It's "US FOREVER".