Control The Uncontrollable // The Acolyte

106. Cold Cheek

The cave was filled with soft morning light, dust motes drifting lazily in the air as the sounds of the twins echoed faintly from outside—laughter, running feet, the occasional shouted disagreement that never quite turned serious. Life, loud and bright. Six year old they were now.

"C'mon," Qimir said, laughter in his voice as he stepped closer. "Raise your arms."

You glanced at him sideways, amused. "You're speaking to me like I'm one of the kids."

He smirked immediately, already kneeling to your height, hands warm and familiar as he gently lifted your arms and guided the shirt over your head with practiced care. He tugged it down, smoothing the fabric at your sides as if it mattered deeply that it sat just right.

"Well," he said lightly, tilting his head as he inspected his work, "you do behave like a little child sometimes."

You scoffed, though the smile betrayed you. "Rude."

He chuckled, rising just enough to press his chest briefly against your back, his presence solid and comforting. "Accurate," he corrected, fixing the hem of your shirt. "But endearing."

You leaned back into him, arms crossing loosely. "I miss when you used to undress me," you added, teasing, knowing exactly what you were doing.

Qimir laughed, the sound low and easy, and dipped his head to brush a quick, affectionate kiss against the side of your neck—careful of the open cave, of the small voices echoing somewhere outside.

"There's never a moment I don't wish I was doing that," he murmured, more playful than anything else.

"Yeah?" you teased, turning fully toward him with a soft laugh. Your hands slid up to rest loosely around his neck as you tilted your head, taking him in. His eyes shimmered in the morning light, relaxed and bright. He wore loose beige pants and a simple shirt—just like you—unintentionally matching, the kind of quiet domestic detail that made your chest warm. He looked good. Better than ever. Not just because of the extra muscle the years (and chasing the boys) had given him, but because of the way he carried himself now—open, content, unafraid of joy.

That was your favorite part.

He leaned in slightly, forehead brushing yours, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The boys are outside," he said softly, a grin tugging at his mouth. "They'll be busy for a while."

You raised a brow, amused, pressing a light kiss to his cheek instead of rising to the bait. "You're terrible," you said fondly.

He smiled wider, wrapping his arms around you anyway, pulling you close—not in a rush, not with expectation—just because he liked you there.

One of his hands slid slowly along your side, fingers warm as they slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, resting flat against the small of your back. The touch was unhurried, familiar, a quiet claim made without urgency. His thumb traced a lazy line there, back and forth, as if he were grounding himself as much as touching you.