It wasn't his hair, skin, his eyes or muscles even tho the muscles were great and all. Knowing he could manhandle her and throw her around in bed in good way.
It was his smile. That adorable, goofy smile that she loved to look at.
She was always looking.
Even now, when sleep wanted to overcome her. Sated and peaceful, she kept her eyes on him, though she knew what he would do. He always kissed her in that moment, while his hands loosened their grip on her hips. He always stayed inside her, letting her play with his hair. He always sighed when their bodies parted. He always lay next to her and pulled her in.
He always stayed silent. He always looked at the ceiling, his expression inscrutable.
Guilt, she supposed, greedily enjoying the rapid pulse of his heart against her cheek. There was always the fear that this would be the last time, so she spent the quiet moments memorizing the feel of his arm around her, or the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.
The silence stretched on and she felt the familiar ache start in her chest. Soon. Too damned soon he would be leaving. Whether on his own accord of because of a phone call, he would leave. Usually it was the phone call.
That phone call from home, signaled by the chorus of Make You Feel My Love when he forgot to silence the ringer.
She hated that song.
But she held onto the moments as they dwindled down. She listened to his heart rate slow down, watched his eyes close and wondered if he cared that their time together was almost over. She listened to his deep sigh, closed her eyes when he squeezed her.
No, she thought, swallowing the lump in her throat. His lips brushed her forehead and she pressed her lips together. She wouldn't cry.
Her eyes burned as soon as he moved away. The ache in her chest grew to a sharp pain and she had to turn her back to him. His phone came to life, drowning out her muffled sob.
She refused to look at him while he spoke to her. But she couldn't drown out his voice. She couldn't not hear the deep rumble that was comforting and reassuring. Her heart clenched and she hated herself for falling in love with him.
He stopped speaking. Her tears accompanied the rustling of his clothes. The mattress dipped and she felt the heat of his hand before it cupped her shoulder.
"I'm sorry." His lips rested against her cheek.
"Does she know?" Even though she knew it would draw out her torment she turned to look at him.
"You know she doesn't." His fingers brushed away her tears. "Please don't cry, baby girl."
"Why?" she whispered. "Why do you always go back to her?"
"It's only for a little while. You gonna be okay?"
No, she wasn't going to be okay. Not until the torture was over. But she nodded, sliding out of bed to pull on her robe. Then she was in his arms, forced to endure the anguish of another kiss. It was supposed to be a promise. A reminder that he always sought her out again.
"I gotta go," he murmured. "I l-"
"Don't," she whispered, clutching the front of his shirt. "Don't say it."
"But I do."
He caressed her cheek. He gave her one more tender kiss.
He left.
And she was alone to count the minutes until he could see her again.
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