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You know you are loved.
You feel it in his touch.
“This movie is terrible!” he laughs. “What’s its Letterboxed rating?”
“Well I like it… it’s cosy.” You roll your eyes, despite knowing he cannot see them. Instead, he sits behind you, fingers combing through hair as he attempts to create a fishtail. Insistent that braids were too simple, he had taken it upon himself to learn other ways to busy himself with your hair (with skills that transcended your own, but you would never admit to).
His hands are gentle against your scalp, never pulling or tugging their way through knots. Apologies slip from his lips if he finds himself too rough despite having the gentlest hands you had come to know.
From their outward appearance alone, one could not assume they were delicate. Covered in callouses, and rough to the touch, yet warm and tender to those blessed with the opportunity to hold them. Whether in your own, on the small of your back, or in your hair, they felt as perfect as ever.
He was right, the movie was absolutely terrible, yet basking in his touch made it all the more enjoyable.
You know you are loved.
You smell it on his clothes.
“Which sweater is nicer?”
“I like the one on your left,” you smile.
He’d look wonderful in both, so you opt for the one which shares his favourite hue. You’re glad to be part of his morning routine, even if it makes you behind on your own.
“Are you going to the supermarket first?” he queries, muffled, his head trapped under your chosen sweater.
“I am.”
His head pops out, hair askew. “Can you get that pistachio chocolate?”
You grimace. “I just brought you a block. Three days ago.”
“And I’m a growing young man.”
You raise a brow. “All you do is eat.”
He laughs, “just say you don’t like pistachio, I know you’re boring already.”
“Boring enough to date apparently.”
He bites back a grin as he sprays his cologne, the aroma filling the air. It’s always been the same, yet the smell never fails to make you beam. You had brought it spontaneously (much to his displeasure—he did not enjoy you spending money on him in such ways), and he had smelt like such ever since. Yes, the aroma was a timeless delight, yet it also served as a reminder. Jean was a man who cared, even if it was as trivial as this. The air proved itself a reminder of such.
You know you are loved.
You taste it on his lips.
“Careful!” His laughter coalesces against the spray of water which soaks you both.
“I’m trying!” you grumble, your tone not quite matching the foolish grin plastered across your face, as your fingers card through his soapy hair. Soap which comes from your shampoo; a small sacrifice made to bask in his presence.
“If you were not so tall this would be easier,” you chastise.
His hair foams between your fingers as you free him from the day’s grime.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”
“Can you stop talking, I need to focus.”
“I appreciate that you understand how greatly I value my haircare but—”
His incessant blabbering is met with your lips. You feel his smile against yours, and albeit tasting slightly of strawberry you find it the most pleasant feeling. As if there is nothing else left in the world but the two of you, in which every touch means something special.
You know you are loved.
You hear it in his voice.
The toe of his shoe taps against yours.
The toe of your shoe taps against his.
And so it continues.
Time passes quickly with him. Even as your train is delayed for another seven minutes, you do not find yourself bothered in the slightest.
“God, this sucks.” he huffs. Yet, you know he is not frustrated for he looks at you sanguinely.
“I just guess we have to eat out tonight,” he drawls. “There is this restaurant I think you’d like. Five minutes away too.”
“Jean, I don’t—”
“Oh, you want to go too? Perfect, let’s go.”
As quickly as he has decided to treat you, he’s scooped you into his arms, forcing you to hold back a squeal as your feet leave the floor. You don’t bother fighting it as you leave the station, nor when you’re met with the chill of the winter city streets.
You both sit in a gentle quietude thereafter. It’s comfortable you think, watching cars and people alike go by.
As your ‘five minute’ walk continues, your attention is brought back to him. “You’re too kind,” you murmur, watching the cold cloud before you.
He brings his lips to your temple. “Of course, anything for you,” he whispers, his voice warm.
He needn’t say much, yet you know it to be true.
You know you are loved.
You see it in his eyes.
“My dear! Does this milk smell expired?”
You slide a bookmark into your well loved edition of Paradise Lost, sauntering off to your kitchen and away from the warmth of your couch’s blankets.
“Oh so that’s where my socks went, I thought I was missing a pair,” he laughs as he hands you the carton. Your gaze sheepishly goes elsewhere.
“They’re warm.”
“And cartoonishly large,” he stifles a chuckle.
As you smell the most certainly spoiled milk you glance back to him, eyes widening as you notice a phone in his clutches. A moment later you hear the shutter snap.
“Jean!”
“What! It’s candid, you look cute.”
“Did you drink any of this?” you scoff, pouring it down the sink. “I haven’t even washed my face.”
“And?”
Your eyes meet him once more, a honeyed brown you know has not once left you. The rays of morning sun manage to make them brighter, something you presumed impossible. They always have been, you think.
You don’t need to say anything, nor does he. The understanding is enough.