Handsome

Wrong Date

Charles Leclerc x Reader

You sigh, adjusting the hem of your dress as you step into the dimly lit, extravagant restaurant. The chandeliers overhead sparkle like tiny galaxies, a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside you. This was a mistake. You didn’t even want to be here, but your friends had practically shoved you into a taxi, insisting that “love comes when you least expect it.”

So here you are, waiting for some guy named Marc—or was it Alan? Honestly, you barely remembered.

The host leads you to a table near the window, where a man is already seated, scrolling through his phone. His light brown hair is slightly tousled, and when he looks up, his green eyes catch the candlelight. He’s handsome—annoyingly so.

“You’re early,” you say, trying to hide your nerves.

He blinks at you, clearly caught off guard. Then, after a beat, he smiles. “I guess I am.”

His accent is smooth, French… no, something else? You don’t dwell on it. You just want to get this evening over with.

“So,” you begin, forcing a polite smile, “what do you do?”

He tilts his head, amused. “You really don’t know?”

You frown. “Should I?”

For a second, he just stares at you, then laughs—a warm, genuine sound that surprises you. “I suppose not. I’m Charles. And you?”

You tell him your name, and he repeats it, letting it roll off his tongue. You don’t want to admit that it sounds nice when he says it.

The conversation is awkward at first. He seems charming, but you feel like you have nothing in common. He talks about traveling, fast cars, and competition. You’re more into books, museums, and quiet evenings.

“I don’t get the appeal of racing,” you confess, sipping your wine. “Driving in circles for hours? Sounds exhausting.”

He nearly chokes on his drink, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’ve never watched Formula 1?”

You shake your head. “Not interested.”

For some reason, that makes him grin. “You might be the first person I’ve met who says that.”

“Glad to be unique,” you say dryly.

But then something shifts. Maybe it’s the way he listens when you talk about your favorite authors, or the way his eyes light up when he describes the thrill of racing. You start teasing him about his job, and he teases you right back, challenging your every assumption. Before you know it, you’re both laughing, the initial awkwardness melting away.

The waiter arrives with dessert, and that’s when your phone buzzes. A message from your friend: “Where are you? Marc says he’s been waiting for 30 minutes!”

Your breath catches. You look at Charles, then at the text.

He raises an eyebrow. “What?”

You hesitate before showing him the message. He reads it, and instead of looking offended, he bursts into laughter.

“Wrong date?” he guesses.

“Wrong date,” you confirm, covering your face in embarrassment.

For a second, there’s silence. Then he leans forward, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Well,” he says, “if it makes you feel better… I’m really glad you sat at the wrong table.”

And somehow, you realize—you are too.

𝓘 𝓬𝓪𝓷 𝓭𝓸 𝓲𝓽 𝓶𝔂𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

You stand in the middle of the cozy kitchen, apron tied clumsily around your waist, hands fumbling with the cutting board. The recipe you found online seemed simple enough, but as you glance back and forth between the instructions and the ingredients sprawled out on the counter, doubt starts to creep in.

Leon leans casually against the doorway, his signature smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. His presence alone is enough to distract you, but he doesn’t say anything—just watches you struggle with the knife as you attempt to chop an onion.

“I can do it myself,” you say, without looking up.

“I know you can,” he replies, his voice calm and full of warmth. “But let me.”

You glance over your shoulder, catching the soft glint of amusement in his blue eyes. He’s already pushing off the doorframe and rolling up his sleeves. His movements are so natural, so unassuming, and you’re left staring as he gently takes the knife from your hand.

“You don’t trust me?” you tease, stepping aside to let him take over.

“Of course I do,” he says, picking up the onion you’d abandoned. “I just trust me more with sharp objects.”

You laugh at that, and the sound seems to light up the room, even in the dim glow of the kitchen. Leon glances at you briefly, and for a moment, there’s something in his expression—something unspoken yet so profoundly tender.

As he starts to chop the onion with precision, you can’t help but admire the way his hands move, confident and skilled. His hair falls slightly into his face, and you resist the urge to brush it back.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmur.

He pauses, his knife hovering above the cutting board. Turning to you, he leans in just enough that the warmth of his proximity makes your heart race.

“You’ve been doing everything all day,” he says softly, his voice steady but gentle. “Let me take care of you for once.”

There’s a sincerity in his words that leaves you momentarily speechless. He’s always been like this—selfless, always putting others first. You reach up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, trying to ignore the heat rising to your cheeks.

“Fine,” you concede, folding your arms. “But don’t think this means you’re getting out of dishes.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rich, and the way he looks at you in that moment—like you’re the only thing that matters—makes your chest tighten.

“Deal,” he says, going back to the onion.

You lean against the counter, watching him work, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself relax. The room smells of fresh ingredients and something else entirely—comfort, safety, and a quiet kind of love.

And as Leon finishes chopping and moves on to help with the rest of the meal, you realize that moments like this—simple, quiet, and shared—might just be your favorite kind of adventure with him.

Like The Movies

James Potter x Reader

You never thought it would happen to you—that kind of love, the one you read about in old books or saw in movies. It’s a love you dream about, but never expect to find. Your friends have always thought you a bit of a hopeless romantic, someone who believes in fairytales despite how many times you've been let down. You'd been burned once, twice, too many times to count, and now, you just couldn't see how anything could live up to the dreamy ideas in your head.

But then James Potter came into your life.

It started small. A glance, a casual brush of his hand against yours in the crowded corridors of Hogwarts. You tried to ignore the flutter in your chest. No one had ever been good enough for you—no one had ever been what you imagined, no one had made your heart race the way you’d always hoped. But there was something about him. He was different.

James Potter had always been the joker, the one who was loud and reckless, always at the center of attention. But behind that mischievous grin and the jokes he cracked with Sirius and Remus, you began to notice another side. A gentler side. It wasn’t immediately obvious—he wasn't one to show vulnerability—but every now and then, you caught glimpses of a quieter James. It was those moments that caught your attention and made you question everything you thought you knew about love.

You had always imagined your romance like a scene straight out of a movie, a perfect fairytale. And yet, here you were, falling for someone who was far from perfect. He didn’t make grand declarations or sweep you off your feet in dramatic gestures. No, he was more subtle than that, more genuine. The first time it truly hit you was one rainy evening, your feet splashing through the puddles on the way back to Gryffindor Tower.

James was walking with you, of course, because that’s just what he did—never let anyone walk alone. The rain fell heavily around you both, soaking through your robes, but neither of you seemed to care. You both laughed at the ridiculousness of it, trying to dodge puddles, failing miserably.

And then, just like that, he took your hand. No words, just a simple act, one that sent a shock of warmth through you even as the rain soaked you both to the bone. The sound of the rain, the laughter you shared—it felt like the start of something real, something more than you had ever dared hope for.

Over the weeks that followed, the two of you shared more moments like that. The two of you would sneak into bars in Hogsmeade, escaping the confines of the castle, your laughter spilling into the air as the two of you hid in the corners. You'd stare up at the stars together, your heart beating wildly, your fingers brushing in a way that made you feel like you were dancing, even without music. He never once told you he loved you, but the way he looked at you, the way he’d quietly hold you when you were sad—those were the things that made you realize what you’d never allowed yourself to believe.

One evening, after a particularly heated game of Quidditch, you found yourself under a stormy sky with him. It was one of those nights where the clouds hung low and dark, threatening to spill over. But neither of you cared. As the rain began to fall, you both stood there, drenched, and, without a word, began to sway, holding onto each other like nothing else mattered. It was just the two of you—no audience, no expectations—just a quiet moment beneath the storm, as the world seemed to disappear around you.

Maybe you were just old-fashioned, you thought, believing in love like that. But in that moment, standing under the stormy sky with James, you felt like you were living out the kind of fairytale you'd always dreamed of.

You never thought you’d fall in love again, at least not in the way you had imagined. But here you were, holding James Potter, heart and soul entwined with his. Maybe, just maybe, this was the kind of love you’d always wanted.

And just when you thought you’d given up on love—just when you believed that no one could ever be good enough—you realized you were wrong. James Potter was exactly what you needed, the one who had always been there, in ways you hadn’t even noticed until now.

And in the end, maybe it was just that simple.

Maybe you'd finally found the love you'd been waiting for, after all.

are you still writing for harris dickinson? if yes could i request you do angst to fluff where reader is upset with him for something just to be petty and he reassures her?

𝓨𝓸𝓾 𝓶𝓪𝓭 𝓪𝓽 𝓶𝓮

Harris Dickinson x Reader

You sit on the edge of the hotel bed, arms crossed, mood simmering with the kind of quiet drama only you can conjure. The room smells like sea air and his cologne — all warm citrus and something woodsy that annoyingly makes your heart soften, even now. Harris stands by the window, completely unaware he’s made you mad… or maybe he knows. That makes it worse.

“You didn’t even notice,” you mutter, eyes fixed on the hotel notepad, where you’ve doodled angry little stars.

He turns slowly, one brow lifting. “Didn’t notice what?”

You don’t answer. You shouldn’t have to. It was your new dress. The one you picked just because you thought he’d look at you like he did that night in Venice — the whole world narrowing to just you in a crowded piazza. Tonight, you got a distracted peck on the cheek and a comment about the weather.

“You’re being quiet,” he says, walking toward you, hands sliding into the pockets of his linen trousers. He looks annoyingly good. Summer suits him. “Too quiet. You mad at me?”

You shrug.

He crouches in front of you, resting his forearms on your knees, forcing your gaze to meet his. His eyes are soft. The kind that always make your stomach flip, no matter how much you want to hold your ground.

“I know that face,” he says, voice low and teasing. “That’s the ‘you messed up, and I’m gonna make you work for it’ face.”

You look away, lips threatening a smile you refuse to let free. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, now I have to worry,” he laughs gently, fingers tapping along your thigh. “C’mon, love. Tell me what I missed. I hate not knowing.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s stupid.”

“Probably,” he agrees, grinning, which earns him a light swat to the shoulder. “But I still want to know. You matter to me — even the silly stuff.”

You hesitate, then sigh. “You didn’t say anything about the dress.”

His expression changes — shifts from amused to sincere, instantly. “What?” His fingers tighten just a little. “You think I didn’t notice?”

You nod, cheeks hot now that the words are out.

“Babe,” he murmurs, standing up slowly, crowding your space just enough to make your breath catch. “You walked into that restaurant tonight and wrecked me. I’ve just been trying to act normal because I didn’t want to start something I couldn’t finish in public.”

You blink, thrown off by the heat in his voice. “That’s… dramatic.”

“I’m an actor,” he smirks, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “But I’m also just a man trying not to fall to his knees every time you look at me like that.”

He presses his forehead to yours, voice barely above a whisper. “You looked unreal, baby. You always do.”

You finally smile — just a little. He sees it and kisses it, soft and slow. And just like that, your petty storm dissolves in the warmth of him.

𝓭𝓮𝓪𝓻 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓽, 𝔀𝓱𝔂 𝓱𝓲𝓶

Regulus Black x Reader

You’ve never given much thought to Regulus Black before. Sure, you’ve seen him in the hallways, always composed, with his sharp cheekbones and darker-than-night eyes. He’s the Slytherin prince everyone whispers about, the one who’s far too serious for his age, but he’s never been more than a fleeting thought in your mind.

Until now.

It starts in Potions class, of all places. You’ve always prided yourself on being decent enough, but today, Professor pairs you with him. Regulus Black. The boy who carries his family’s name like a burden but wears his ambition like armor.

“You’d best keep up” he says without even looking at you as he flips through his textbook. His voice is smooth, like honey drizzled over something bitter.

You clench your jaw, determined not to rise to the bait. “And you’d best stop assuming you’re the only one with a brain.”

The ghost of a smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. It’s not much, but you see it, and for some reason, your chest feels strange—tight and warm all at once.

You don’t know when it begins to shift. At first, it’s annoyance. His snide remarks get under your skin, but you find yourself countering them with your own sharp wit. He’s infuriatingly precise, and you hate how his quiet confidence seems to unsettle you.

But then there’s a moment. A single moment that plants the seed of something dangerous.

It’s late one evening in the library. You’re poring over a book for a Transfiguration essay when you notice him at the table across from you. His hair is slightly mussed, his tie loosened, and for once, he looks almost…human. Tired, even.

“You’re staring,” he mutters without looking up.

Your cheeks flush, and you quickly look back at your parchment. “I wasn’t staring. I was…thinking.”

His dark eyes finally meet yours, and for a second, you swear there’s something vulnerable in them. It vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual guarded expression. But that second lingers, and it worms its way into your mind, your chest, your soul.

After that, you notice things. The way he tucks a strand of hair behind his ear when he’s focused. The faint scar on his left hand, like a memory of something he won’t share. The way he always pauses before answering questions in class, as if weighing the worth of his words.

You tell yourself it’s just curiosity. You’re intrigued, nothing more.

But then he defends you. It’s during a confrontation in the corridor with some Slytherins who have taken the House rivalry a step too far. You’re outnumbered, your wand gripped tightly in your hand, when Regulus steps out of the shadows.

“Enough,” he says, his voice cold and sharp. The others freeze, their bravado crumbling under his gaze. They mutter apologies and disappear, leaving you standing there, stunned.

“Why did you do that?” you ask, heart hammering in your chest.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. “Because it was the right thing to do.”

You should walk away. You should let this be a fleeting interaction, but something in you snaps. “Who are you, Regulus Black? Really?”

He looks at you then, truly looks at you, and for the first time, you see the cracks in his armor. The weight of expectations, the quiet desperation of someone trapped by his own choices. He doesn’t answer, but his silence tells you more than words ever could.

And that’s when you realize the truth.

You’re falling for him.

It’s not dramatic, like a lightning strike. It’s slow, like the creeping warmth of sunlight after a storm. It terrifies you, because Regulus Black is everything you shouldn’t want. He’s a Slytherin. He’s guarded, secretive, and so achingly distant. But beneath it all, you see someone who is trying—fighting—to be more than what the world expects him to be.

And maybe, you think you can be the one to remind him he’s not alone. Even if it breaks your heart in the end.

Love

Tangerine x Reader

You’re in the middle of the kitchen, fumbling with dinner, when Tangerine’s voice filters in from the hallway. That familiar lilt, soft and sure, with a teasing edge to it, instantly makes your heart flutter.

“You’ve been at this for hours, love,” he says, leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed in mock sternness. The way his words roll off his tongue—"love" stretching like honey—sends a smile tugging at your lips.

“I’m trying to perfect your favorite dish,” you reply, stirring the pot with exaggerated concentration. You don’t even look at him, but you can hear the smirk in his voice when he steps closer.

“And burning it, are we?” he teases, placing his hands on your shoulders. His touch is warm, steady, and when he dips his head to whisper near your ear, you can feel the smile in his words. “Let me take over before you set the house on fire.”

You glance at him then, unable to resist, and there’s that face. Mischievous brown eyes and that lopsided grin you fell for years ago. It’s so unfair how he can disarm you without trying.

“You’re insufferable,” you say, but the affection is clear in your tone.

“And you adore me,” he counters smoothly, his accent making the words sound like a melody.

He nudges you aside with mock impatience, tying an apron around his waist. Watching him cook is its own kind of magic—the precise movements of his hands, the soft hum of a tune under his breath, and the occasional glance he throws your way to make sure you’re watching.

“You know,” he says after a while, his voice lower, “I only pretended to like this dish at first.”

You blink at him, feigning offense. “You what?”

“Oh, don’t get cross, darling,” he says quickly, his accent thickening as he turns to face you with an innocent shrug. “It grew on me. Like you.”

He’s grinning again, his dimples on full display, and you can’t help but laugh. He’s always had a way of weaving humor and tenderness together, leaving you wrapped up in both.

By the time dinner is ready, the kitchen smells heavenly, and he insists on setting the table, pulling out your chair like the gentleman he is.

As you sit across from him, the two of you laughing over nothing and everything, his hand reaches across to clasp yours.

“You know I love you, right?” he says, his tone soft, sincere. His accent gives the words a weight that feels ancient and timeless all at once.

“I do,” you reply, squeezing his hand. “But I love your accent more.”

He laughs, full and warm, and when he leans forward to kiss you, you think that no dish in the world, no matter how perfect, could compare to this.

To him.

𝓘’𝓶 𝓷𝓸𝓽 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝔂

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

The first contraction hits, and you know. It’s time.

You sit on the edge of the bed, one hand cradling your belly, breathing through the pressure. The dim glow of the bedside lamp casts a golden hue over the room, peaceful and warm. But across the hall, chaos unfolds.

Leon is frantic.

You hear him rifling through drawers, muttering under his breath as he darts from room to room. “Where’s the bag? The one we packed? Damn it—where did I put the—" A thump follows as something falls over, probably a chair.

You exhale, amused. “Leon, it’s in the closet.”

He appears in the doorway, eyes wild, hair even messier than usual. “Which closet?”

“The only closet in our room, babe.”

He spins around and yanks the door open, fumbling for the hospital bag. You can hear the zipper struggling against his urgency, the sound of baby clothes rustling as he checks for everything twice—maybe three times.

Another contraction builds, but you stay calm, hands resting on your belly. “Leon.”

“Yeah?” He looks up, halfway through stuffing an extra set of onesies into the bag.

You smile at him. “It’s okay.”

His shoulders drop slightly, but his jaw remains tight. You know he’s not just worried about the logistics—he’s scared. Scared for you, for the baby, for everything that could go wrong. You reach for him, and he’s at your side instantly, kneeling in front of you, hands gripping yours.

“I’m not ready,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper.

“You can handle this, Leon.”

He lets out a shaky chuckle, but his blue eyes are searching yours, full of emotion. “This is different. This is you. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

You brush a hand through his hair, smoothing away his worry for just a moment. “We’re going to be okay.”

He nods, squeezing your hands. The panic eases, if only slightly, as he helps you to your feet. The bag is ready, the car is waiting, and the night ahead is unpredictable. But one thing is certain—Leon is here, holding your hand, ready to face it all with you.

Because for all the horrors he’s fought, nothing matters more than this moment. Than you. Than the life you’re about to bring into the world together.

𝐋𝐚𝐳𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

Alexei Vronsky x Reader

The first rays of dawn creep through the gossamer curtains, casting soft golden light across the room. You awaken to the quiet rustle of movement nearby, your heart quickening before your eyes even open. The subtle aroma of fresh coffee mingles with the faint scent of cedar and citrus—his scent, distinctly Alexei.

When you finally open your eyes, he is there by the window, his silhouette framed by the early morning glow. Alexei Vronsky, ever the picture of effortless elegance, is dressed in a loose white shirt, the first few buttons undone, and dark trousers that cling perfectly to his lean form. His dark hair is tousled, his face turned toward the pale morning sky. For a moment, he seems lost in thought, as if he’s carrying the weight of the world.

“Good morning,” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep.

His head turns at the sound, and when his eyes meet yours, they soften instantly, a rare and fleeting vulnerability in their depths. He crosses the room in long strides, the faintest smile playing on his lips. The smile is just for you—it always is.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. His fingers brush a strand of hair from your face, lingering against your cheek. “But the light...it was too perfect not to watch.”

You prop yourself up on one elbow, letting the sheet slip from your shoulder. “And you didn’t think to share it with me?”

“I wanted to preserve the peace,” he replies, though there’s a playful glint in his eyes now. His hand trails down your arm, tracing idle patterns against your skin. “But I’m glad you’re awake. The morning is always better with you.”

You laugh softly, the sound seeming to warm him. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, before finding your lips. The kiss is unhurried, tender, as though he has all the time in the world for you—and only you.

“Shall we take our coffee outside?” he murmurs against your lips, his breath warm and intimate. “The garden is beautiful this time of day.”

“Only if you promise to keep me warm,” you tease, though you already know he will.

His eyes darken slightly, filled with something deeper than just affection. “Always,” he vows.

And with that, Alexei rises, holding out his hand to you. The morning stretches ahead, full of promises whispered in golden light and moments shared in quiet intimacy.

sweetheart

Dante Sparda x Reader

You’ve never met someone as insufferable as Dante Sparda. With his smug grin, devil-may-care attitude, and a penchant for turning everything into a joke, he’s the embodiment of everything you hate. A cocky show-off who acts like the world owes him a favor just because he’s good with a sword.

And you? You’re just someone who doesn’t have time for his nonsense.

The mission was simple enough. Something about a demon nest hidden in the abandoned catacombs beneath the city. Dante, for reasons you’d never understand, insisted on tagging along. You told him no. He came anyway.

“Y’know, you really shouldn’t go into places like this alone,” he says as the two of you step into the cold, damp tunnels. He walks beside you, his oversized sword slung casually over his shoulder, a revolver holstered at his side. His red coat sways with every step, and you find yourself gritting your teeth at how effortlessly he makes it all look.

“Shouldn’t you be off somewhere preening in front of a mirror?” you snap, your voice echoing in the gloom. “Or maybe finding someone else to bother?”

He chuckles, that infuriating sound that somehow manages to sound both genuine and mocking. “Ouch. Right in the ego. You know, if you keep being this mean to me, I might start thinking you don’t like me.”

“Good,” you reply, not missing a beat. “Maybe you’ll take the hint and leave me alone.”

“Not a chance, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. You hate that nickname. You hate how he says it, like it’s some kind of inside joke you’re not in on. You shoot him a glare, and he winks in response.

It doesn’t take long before the first wave of demons descends. You’re faster than him—quicker to draw your weapon and strike. Your blade cuts through the air with precision, dispatching the lesser demons with practiced ease.

Dante, of course, makes a show of it. He leaps into the fray like it’s a performance, spinning his sword in wide, exaggerated arcs. His guns bark loudly as he fires off a few rounds, each shot landing perfectly.

“Having fun yet?” he calls out, grinning at you over his shoulder.

You don’t answer, focusing instead on taking down the last of the creatures. When the fight is over, you stand amidst the carnage, breathing heavily. Dante, of course, looks like he just walked out of a salon. Not a hair out of place.

“You’re welcome,” he says, sheathing his sword with a flourish.

“For what?” you ask, wiping blood from your blade. “Showing off? Or getting in my way?”

“For making this whole thing more entertaining.” He leans casually against the wall, crossing his arms. “Admit it—you’d be bored without me.”

You don’t bother responding.

The deeper you go into the catacombs, the more the tension between you builds. It’s not just the danger of the place or the oppressive atmosphere—it’s him. Always there, always pushing your buttons.

“So,” he says after a while, breaking the silence, “why do you hate me so much?”

You roll your eyes. “Do you really want me to list all the reasons? We’ll be here all night.”

“Try me.”

You sigh, exasperated. “You’re arrogant, annoying, and you never take anything seriously.”

“Anything else?”

“You flirt with everything that moves.”

He smirks. “What can I say? I’ve got good taste.”

You stop walking, turning to face him. “This isn’t a game, Dante. People’s lives are at stake. If you’re not going to take this seriously, then just leave.”

For a moment, something shifts in his expression. The grin falters, and you catch a glimpse of something deeper—a flicker of understanding, maybe even regret.

Then it’s gone, replaced by that infuriating smirk. “Relax, sweetheart. I’ve got your back.”

“I don’t need you to have my back,” you snap. “I don’t need you, period.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” he says, brushing past you. “But don’t be too surprised when I’m the one saving your ass later.”

You glare at his back as he walks ahead, his red coat disappearing into the shadows. You hate him. You really do.

But somehow, against all logic, you know he’s right.

Religion's in your lips

Leon S Kennedy x Reader

Under the dim light of the bedroom, you lie next to Leon, your fingers tracing the outline of his hand. The weight of the world seems miles away, the only thing that matters is the warmth between you two, the quiet rhythm of your breathing syncing together in perfect harmony. It feels like you’re the only two left in this universe, like nothing else can touch you in this moment.

His presence has a kind of serenity to it. There’s something in the way he holds you, as if he's been waiting for this quiet, intimate escape his entire life. You turn your head to find him already watching you with those soft, steady eyes, as though every unspoken word between you both is enough.

You lift a hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. It’s there, and it’s real. This moment, these little exchanges that mean more than anything else. His lips, warm and gentle against your skin, send a spark down your spine. They carry the weight of something deep, something sacred.

The way he touches you, as if every part of you is a prayer, is a silent reverence. Your bodies speak a language that needs no words, the connection between you both unspoken, but understood in every caress, every glance, every shared breath.

The night stretches on, enveloping you both in its quiet embrace. There’s no rush, no need for anything but the closeness that fills the space between you, wrapped in the softness of his touch and the tenderness in his gaze. The world outside doesn’t exist. Only this sacred moment does.

And when he presses his lips against yours again, you understand that this is what it means to be loved—no words needed, just the devotion and quiet worship in the press of his lips, the way he holds you. His love feels like something sacred, like the calm that follows a storm. Like a prayer.

You find solace in him, in the simple touch of his hands and the silent promises they carry. The night is yours, and for once, the world can wait.