His pov

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".

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