Call Me Yours [BL]

Chapter 7

QOTD: what's an embarrassing thing you've done for a crush? give me writing inspiration

Kahili's stressed.

Valen sees it in his absence.

An overwhelming bright glint glares at Valen as he climbs the stairs to their second story. The early morning sunlight is refreshing against his skin. He can't smell its sunshine, but he can feel its warmth. It slows his steps and makes his journey just a little longer so he can bask in the beams. It shines through the grand windows in an invitation to start the day.

Kahili, seemingly, started it hours ago.

"Kahili," Valen calls softly, the overly tender tone blanketing his voice reserved solely for his husband.

Kahili doesn't look up from his work when Valen approaches but he hums lowly, distracted. "Yes, my love?"

Valen knows from the scattered papers and pinch in his eyebrows that Kahili's been at this for hours, long before the sun had risen. There's a dimmed expression on his face, but it does little to curb how effortlessly attractive he is. "Eat," Valen commands, setting a plate down on his work desk.

Breakfast potatoes and steak greet Kahili warmly. Giving in, he takes his glasses off and creates a space among the disastrous mess of designs to fit the plate. "Thank you," he smiles gratefully, but it's not as bright as it should be. It lacks his usual playfulness, and while nothing in this universe could turn his emotions as easily as Valen, he feels tired. Food is among the last things on his mind—his designs begging him to keep working, but he's a weak man.

A weak, weak man who would never turn away his husband.

"You're overworking yourself again," Valen utters. Subtle concern etches his features. Kahili recognizes it immediately. He recognized it as soon as he smelled Valen cooking breakfast. He's bad with words, his lovely husband. Valen clamps up and he struggles to say what he means, but it's there in his actions, so subtle and concerned, loving in ways that Kahili hardly thinks he deserves.

"I'm not," Kahili assures. He ignores the food in favor of reaching for Valen, hands finding their familiar place on his husband's waist to gently coax him forward. Kahili rolls back in his chair and Valen fits so naturally between his open legs, the edge of the desk a gentle pressure against his back.

His workspace is a mess.

The entirety of their second-floor loft is dedicated to Kahili's work.

Three different desks take up a small portion of the room, each grand and adjustable to any height. Papers and endless fabric litter each one in a cohesive mess only Kahili's able to understand. His sewing machine glares at him from a desk over, a palpable reminder he's behind.