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staticl0ve · 2 years ago

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Kiss it Better - Sixty/AFAB!Reader

Pairings: Sixty/AFAB!Reader (no pronouns) Rating: Mature/Explicit/NSFW 18+ Link (AO3): Make It Better (oneshot) Words: 5.6k Warnings: hurt/comfort, alcohol use, smut, PnV sex, oral (F!receiving), reader’s wearing a dress Summary: Sixty’s got a bit of a roommate problem and that roommate’s got a bit of a dating problem. Romance isn’t really his thing. But when your slew of bad dates and crummy luck with romance has you spiraling, he’s there, unexpectedly. Perhaps…he’s always been there. Notes: Wrote this in one crazy fever dream after listening to Rihanna all week.

Before Sixty left for work, the living room was immaculate, the coffee table streak free and devoid of grease. Coasters were neatly stacked, a vase of flowers sat in the middle. Sure, the man loved to party, but that didn’t stop him from keeping his home presentable. First impressions were important and the way an apartment looked said a lot about a man.

Of course, he did have a human roommate to account for.

As soon as he walked in, he was greeted with the sounds of a television. From the dialogue, it sounded like a sappy romance, the kind of low effort film that never made it to theaters. There was a half eaten pint of melting ice cream, dribbling a sticky mess onto the wooden table. Wine streaked down the sides of a freshly emptied glass. A tissue box was lying on top of a pile of crumpled, used tissues. His brown eyes followed a trail of potato chip crumbs to a bag hastily torn open and then to the culprit that wrecked the tidiness of his shared apartment.

“Shit. What happened? Did you get left at the altar?” he said, sarcasm dripping with every word. This was almost a routine for him, coming home and hoping you’d laugh off your misery with him.

Instead, your eyes were glued passive aggressively to the tv, refusing to acknowledge him. In between your crossed legs was a wine bottle that you were hugging to your chest. Your eyes welled up marginally and you tried your hardest to blink, to slow your sudden uptick in needing to swallow lungfuls of air.

“Not tonight, Six.”

He loosened his tie, the red silk coming undone with ease. Taking a few steps into the apartment, he dropped his work bag, leaving it by the door to prioritize your distress. As he neared the couch, he over theatrically dusted away stray chip crumbs and when you didn’t appreciate his second attempt at humor, he quietly sank down into the cushion.

Sixty gave you a quick once over, dragging his gaze from your bare legs to the thin, glittery number you chose for the evening. A dress it seemed, that your failed date did not get to appreciate. Brown eyes lingered for a fraction of a second longer at where your thighs parted around the wine bottle you were cradling. Look, the man had eyes and he wasn’t going to be shy about where they landed.

Attempt number three. Because, as they say, the third time’s the charm.

Running a hand through his hair, he feigned a stretch, knocking the side of his chest against your arm playfully. His teeth flashed in a wide grin like he was already laughing at a joke in his head.

“So did Prince Charming turn out to be a frog?”

“Can we please just—” you said and waved your arms at the television. ��Sit here? Let’s just watch the movie and not…” You bit your lip, glancing up at the ceiling. A stinging burn pinched the back of your eyes and the insides of your nose. “…Not talk for once?”

His back slouched, head dipping lower so you couldn’t avoid eye contact. A warm hand squeezed your shoulder. He breathed out your name, finally hitting you with a pair of molten brown eyes. They were sympathetic, reminding you of all the times you’ve both sought each other for emotional support, although you more than him. The raw honesty only made your eyes sting further.

His voice shifted to a low whisper. “How long have we known each other?”

You had held in the urge to cry for too long, needing to sniffle and snort back the moisture in your nose. Compared to his neat black button up and pressed black slacks, you withered a bit at being the gross, wet (not in the fun way), and sniffly human. Sixty wasn’t letting you crawl back into your bad mood, handing you tissues from a box nearby and prodding you gently with an elbow.

“Three years, right?” he prompted.

“Yeah,” you answered flatly, facing away from him to blow your nose.

“And how many years have we been roommates?”

After a heavy sigh, you turned your head in his direction. “Two.”

“See that? That…” He slung an arm over your shoulder. The color in his eyes were brighter, touched by a warmth that you’d rarely seen. “That is us making it through the honeymoon phase.”

You didn’t even get his joke, but something about it made you let out a short, weak laugh. Maybe it was because the apartment at a glance looked like the home of two newly weds with his stuff intermixed with yours: the chore wheel on the fridge, a digital album on the wall that cycled through photos and most of them were of you and him. Then there were the flowers you received this week, the only pretty thing in the mess you’ve made.

You were sure it was from Sixty, the timing of it arriving after a terrible date was a little suspicious. Although, he insisted it wasn’t him, pointing out the anonymous nature of the note. The writing was short and sweet and you found yourself occasionally glancing at it on your way out the door.

Tonight’s date hadn’t gone so poorly when considering the metrics, being stood up happened to a lot of people. That didn’t seem to stop a crushing weight pulling at your chest, followed by a string of thoughts that only dragged your mood down the further you pulled at it. If your mind was once a neat and tidy spool of yarn, every date was a snag, a snip. The mess you’ve made of the coffee table spilled beyond the living room. Your laundry was neglected, your room untidy, and you were indulging in bad habits like staying up late with a bottle of wine and sappy movies depicting unrealistic expectations of romance.

Sixty’s voice guided you out of your head, but it wasn’t going to be a question you wanted to hear. “Were you supposed to go dancing tonight?”

“Kinda, there were plans to meet at some bar that had a dance floor…or something, I don’t remember,” you answered, tiptoeing around your memory.

Sixty caught on. He was a detective model after all.

“He didn’t show up.”

Instantly, you tensed back up, shrugging his shoulder off to sit up from the couch.

“No. No, he didn’t.”

Gracefully, he stood up, crowding your front and blocking the television. From behind him, the screen changed, flickering to a music video. A sultry electric guitar tune was joined by the vocals of a famous pop-star. You couldn’t see anything with Sixty in the way but you could hear the lyrics loud and clear.

Hurting vibe, man, it hurts inside when I look in your eye

What are you willing to do?

Oh, tell me what you’re willing to do?

Kiss it, kiss it better, baby.

His hand extended in front of you, a lopsided grin spreading over his handsome face. “Dance with me?”

“Six.”

“Come on. It’s me or that wine you won’t stop hugging.”

“Then I’ll stick with the wine, thanks.”

His tall stature deflated slightly, face drooping into a pitiful image of a puppy that had been kicked. He could tell his silly expression was melting some of your tension away as your grip on the bottle loosened.

“Humor me. Just this one song,” he added.

Reluctantly, you placed your hand in his. He easily pulled you away from the couch, maneuvered you around the coffee table, all while managing to slip the wine out of your hands and placing it somewhere out of reach. The song continued on, it’s lyrics drifting in and out of your attention.

I’ve been waiting up all night

Baby, tell me what’s wrong

Go on and make it right

Make it all night long

Sixty stood before you, smiling softly as he placed one arm around your waist and the other, cradling your head so you had to rest your face onto his chest. He hummed quietly to the song, his chest rumbling in waves.

His embrace was familiar to you. Friends hugged and that was what you two were. Friends. Hugging. You weren’t at all shocked by the warmth, or his clothes that always had a silken quality to it…or the firm and strong chest that flexed as he moved. His cologne smelled good though, like a rose garden. Somehow it didn’t soften his rather masculine image, but rather added to it. Sixty was a confident man, one who was rather secure in who and what he was, who he liked and boy did he like. After all, you were roommates. On plenty of occasions, you had awkwardly greeted his one night stands before they dashed away.

Your footsteps were matched to his as he swayed you both slowly to the music. One, two, three, four. A half turn, then another. A weight, literally, was added to your head. You weren’t sure if it was his chin, or nose but you were damn certain it couldn’t have been his lips.

“Talk to me,” he said.

You buried your face into his chest. “About what?”

His hand slipped from your back and up to stroke the space between your shoulder blades. “Whatever you want.”

“Why don’t you ever go on dates?”

“Hmm,” was the sound he gave in place of an answer.

When he met you long after he settled into deviancy, you both got along like a house on fire. Between your infectious laughter and your wicked desire to throw his jokes back at him. Sixty was hooked. And let’s be honest, he was again, a simple machine with two perfectly functioning eyes. You were intelligent, thoughtful, and the finishing note to his ideal trifecta was your unique brand of beauty.

You scanned his features, the small dent on his forehead drawing your focus. The mysterious dent with a story of its own.

It was year one of your friendship. Behind him was the backdrop of a crystal clear lake and you beside him, sweating buckets from a long, intense hike. As you cooled off in the lake with your legs in the water, Sixty spoke about his history and the atrocities he almost committed to his own kind. You listened, nodding and commenting when appropriate. The wake up call he needed was a bullet grazing his head and the rest as they say, was ancient history.

After hiking, you went out to a bar. His cheeks were flushed from a few thirium based drinks, his mind feeling marginally sparkly and warm. He was moments from risking it all to ask you out when the conversation turned philosophical and self reflecting. Android and human relations got brought up and your opinion changed everything.

“I’m not sure I’d date an android. Too many sob stories say it’ll just be tragic. Just imagine…an old, dying person and their eternally youthful partner.”

To his credit, Sixty did argue that technology was advancing faster because androids were involved. The cure for humanity’s fragility could be found.

As for you, Sixty was a funny guy with a great face and a physique which never strayed from being a lithe and powerful machine. A long way of saying he was beautiful, but what android wasn’t? Whenever he flashed you a wolfish grin meant only for you, you noticed the beginnings of a butterfly’s flutter in your belly. Long forgotten were the ignorant words a younger you said. Maybe the connection you felt was mutual? But by then it was year two of friendship and early in your roommate days when Sixty said something that changed…everything.

“Dating? Love’s overrated. I’m here to have fun. Something your date last night wouldn’t have known.”

Oh right, you brought home an AP700 named Sam, your first android date. And it was going really well. Unexpectedly well. In fact, this was already date number three. When you laughed too enthusiastically at their jokes, you swore Sixty was fuming in the kitchen. If anything, you should have been angry. The moment he set eyes on Sam, he stormed out and brought home two companions for what sounded like an all night sex marathon. You couldn’t get very far with Sam when things were so distracting one hallway over. The fight you had with Sixty the following morning was not a pleasant one.

This wasn’t anyone’s fault. The onus could have fallen on either side. You were uncertain about Sixty’s intentions. He was usually supportive with side commentary as you swiped left and right. Other days, he’d cross his arms and size up the android shaking his hand. You lacked the energy to add any of it up. Dating had worn you down until you no longer laughed at his jokes, or laughed at anything really. The pantry shifted into being over stocked with booze and lacking real food.

One evening, you came home to a mouth watering smell, your nose guiding you straight into the kitchen. It wasn’t like him to learn to cook, let alone lie that his sudden interest had everything to do with a popular British baking show and nothing to do with your alarming diet change.

Since then, he wondered if you noticed the silence from his side of the hallway. You were hurting. More than ever, Sixty wanted to please and make it all better.

He just didn’t know how.

“You don’t date, which is fine. It’s just a shame I never get to hear stories about weirdos trying to use your hair as floss,” you threw in when he remained silent.

“My needs are met,” he uncharacteristically answered with all of the lightness and playfulness gone.

“You mean sex?” you chuckled. “I get it. I know you think romance is overrated.”

Sixty’s face pinched in annoyance.

“It’s not like that.”

Distracted, your mood shifted from gloom to intrigue as you began interrogating him.

“What’s it like then?”

He rudely decided that was the moment to dip you and chuckled as you yelped. Your fingers clumsily gripped whatever parts of him were closest.

“Six!”

Sixty looked down at you through dimmed eyes, a faint smirk dimpling one cheek.

“What I want is out of reach,” he answered vaguely. His eyes bore into yours, his brow pinched and what little insecurity you saw dissolved as he rose you back up to a standing position. You didn’t know why you had to press. It could have been your frayed nerves, the wine…or that funny little feeling that had been steadily growing in your chest since your friendship started.

“What‘s out of reach?” you asked, voice firm. At the shift in color on his LED, the television clicked off. No more distractions.

“It’s nothing,” he answered. You glared at him…or pouted, either way he sighed and rolled his eyes. “What I want could ruin a friendship.”

“How?” You managed to try and not sound judgmental, keeping a gentle tone to your voice.

“You don’t understand, I want this person.”

“That’s it? This is fresh coming from the biggest risk taker I know. I’ve seen you jump off a balcony to prove a point about your,” you made quotations with your hands, “Superior design.”

He scoffed out your name. “What would you do in my shoes?”

You weren’t dancing anymore but he kept you in his arms, unmoving. Golden light carved out the edges of his cheekbones, bringing attention to the dusting of freckles on his pink tinted cheeks. His eyes narrowed while he waited for your answer.

“Knowing my luck, it’d all go to shit but I think that the reward would outweigh the risk. If that person…returned my feelings, then I’d have a chance at something rather than pining my whole life,” you replied. “But then again, do as I say and not as I do. My dating life is pretty crappy as is.”

As he considered your answer, the gears in your head began to turn.

“Wait…” you mused. “Is this friend…”

His hands moved to cradle your face, rubbing soothing lines along your cheeks.

“You.”

Your eyes widened, mouth falling ajar in a surprised gasp. “Oh.”

“Yeah, you’re kind of dense,” he joked. “I’m amazed we’re friends at all.” A smile was plastered on his face, one you would have seen if you weren’t busy trying to solve a puzzle.

“I don’t get it. Then…why all the one night stands?”

His shoulder raised and fell. “Thought it’d help.”

“Did it?” you asked, voice small.

“No.” He tipped your head upward. It was easier being a friend. Love was messy, it tied people together in ways that when things broke, it couldn’t be put back the same way. Sixty had preferred the path of least resistance, the route that guaranteed he’d fit into your world. “You deserve happiness. You deserve love. I just couldn’t risk not having you around.”

“That’s…” you laughed. “That is unbelievably cheesy, dumb…and…kinda sweet.”

“Did you like that? I can generate those lines by the second.”

“Oh my god, Six.”

“Kidding.” His voice module failed him, clicking into static. “I meant what I said.”

Boldly, you dangled yourself out there like a carrot on a stick. Your legs stepped out ahead of you, nudging your pelvis flush to his. He bit back a moan, hands fisting your hips to halt your movements.

“Are you sure? We can finish your movie.” he suggested, voice dipping low into a growl when you ground into him. He had to subdue his processes, force himself to behave. Secretly, he wanted nothing more than what you were hinting at giving him.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, kneading and tugging until a high pitched whine exited his chest.

“We’ve…waited a long time for this.”

“We have,” he agreed. For once, he wasn’t sure what else to say. Quiet was not his usual state of being. It made it easier for you to see the shyness that crept beneath the surface. His LED was a traitorous entity, flickering red briefly as he studied your micro-expressions.

“If we do this,” you continued. “I need to know this is gonna be for more than one night.”

“Sweetheart, we can do this every night.” He licked his lips, sticking out his tongue obscenely.

“Sixty,” you insisted, placing a hand to cover his mouth. “Seriously.”

He purposely mumbled behind your palm as he considered whether or not he should lick you to rile you up. Sixty blinked back at you, raising one brow.

“It’s important for me to know,” you pressed.

A voice came out of his audio unit from low in his throat and oddly louder than when he spoke out of his mouth. “Are you going to let me talk?”

You chuckled, lifting your hand.

“Do you know why I wanted to live with you? To spend more time together. Do you want to know how long I’ve wanted this?” He towered over you, head tilted like he was scolding you somehow. “Three years. Three. Years. So yes, this means something to me.”

“Well, hang on. You said you wanted to live with me cause you didn’t want me living with a random creep.”

“And?”

“I don’t know, jury’s still out,” you replied with a smirk. Wrapping your hands around the loose ends of his tie, you pulled the silk until his head lowered. His lips brushed against yours, tracing the outline of it.

“I heard your roommate has a talented tongue.” he whispered against your lips.

“Oh, does he?”

His answer was lost, stolen by a kiss. He crumpled forward, arms wrapping around your back. Unable to resist a slow exploration, his lips suckled, teeth teasing your skin with faint nips. He could capture your racing pulse beneath your skin and chased the the stream of data that comprised of your taste. Hands dug into the exposed backing of your dress, kneading and squeezing what he could reach.

You weren’t fairing much better. Your hands weren’t shy as you explored the texture of his silky shirt, nails clawing down his shoulder blades, shuddering at the disparity in his versus your strength from the flex of his back muscles. As your lips collided with increasing need, you could almost taste the urgency growing into the swell of a storm, feel the rush of blood roaring in your ears. Sixty was there, arms wrapped around you like a life preserve and you gave yourself to the currents, trusting him to keep you afloat.

Unwilling to break the kiss, he dipped you lower, slipping an arm behind your legs and lifting you off your feet. Your cry of surprise was muffled with another stroke of his tongue curling around yours. A palm on your back soothed you, utilizing the movement to also slide your zipper down. You could hear his footsteps echoing in the hallway and the breeze of a swift turn into his bedroom. He slipped you free of your dress and undergarments as you found yourself lying on his bed, staring up at his adoring gaze.

“Hey,” you said and he smiled back in return.

“Hi,” he answered and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“Wait,” you insisted. He stopped, confused. You’d explain it later, the details of an embarrassing dream you had of him.“Leave them on. Maybe…roll up your sleeves?”

Smirking, he did as you asked, slowly flexing his arms as he carefully rolled the fabric up. You laid back on your elbows, pensive and mildly distracted by how this night had gone. You’d been in his room before, although, not from this angle and certainly not naked. The thought of his many conquests made you a little uncomfortable.

“So…is this where the magic happens?” you asked to break your nerves.

The bed dipped from his added weight. He raised your leg up, draping it over his shoulder. His elbow pushed your other leg apart, seamlessly slotting his way between your thighs. In the dark, he looked deadly, still dressed in all black with a killer grin but he was staring at you like he couldn’t believe you were lying on his bed. He ran his hands down your thighs, grin softening into a shy smile.

“This, is where I make love to you,” he said without a trace of irony.

“Gross,” you laughed. You didn’t get to laugh for long when his tongue ran through your folds and flattened on the nerves above. He swirled it around, the texture of it softer and wetter than you expected. Faint rough edges, likely his sensors, acted liked ridged bumps, alighting sparks behind your eyes with every flick of his tongue.

“God! Sixty!” You choked out another moan. “Warn me f-first?”

He took a short break, lifting his head so you could see him smirk.

“Sure. May I?”

Roughly tangling your fingers into his hair, you gripped it gently, smiling slightly when he let out a low groan.

“Okay,” you said.

“Good. Lie back.”

The voice he used wasn’t one you were familiar with. It gripped you by the throat, turned you into a compliant mess of limbs. He reminded you of his gentle affection, kissing your inner thigh and nuzzling his nose back and forth on your skin. His other hand prodded at your core, catching the dampness that pooled between your thighs.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

You barely managed a nod, throat too dry and suddenly drier as soon as he eased in one finger. He was in as deep as his second knuckle, turning his hand to curl it and resumed lapping at your clit.

“S-Six.”

Before Sixty became a deviant, he had heard of rA9 countless of times, thinking nothing of it. The other deviants worshipped it like an idol and some saw it as their ticket to freedom. And no, this wasn’t going to be some eye opening moment for him because he had just found something better.

“Sixty!” you cried out.

You were less than gentle with how your fingers raked up the back of his head. He was out of his mind, drunk with purpose, tongue vibrating and twisting. As he added an extra finger, he soothed the stretch with a distracting suck on your overly sensitive nerves. When you got a little too lost in your head, he teased you with fluttery kisses, barely touching you where you needed it.

“Sweetheart. If I can’t hear you, how will I know how I’m doing?”

You whined something above him, feeling his lips curl against your thigh. Sixty knew he was being unreasonable, deciding then to angle his fingers and stroke a spot that turned you into a whimpering mess.

“What was that?” he asked.

He felt your hands in his hair pushing him back down, silencing his snark. He still managed to chuckle, mouth falling open to resume his torture. His fingers were lost in you, curling around restricting muscles and creating a collection of lewd, wet noises.

“I…I can’t,” you moaned, thrashing your head in the sheets.

“You can. Sweetheart. It’s okay. Let it go.” He heard you cry out his name as you tensed and came with a shudder. His mouth parted so you could feel and hear his moan. “I knew you’d sound so pretty like this.”

“Come up here.” You croaked out a weak imitation of a sentence but you were lucky he had good ears.

Sixty gave your clit one last lick, laughing to himself when you tried to buck him away. He made his way up the bed until his bulge was pressed directly on your pulsing core. At your gasp, he ground into you, not caring if you were marking his clothes. Fuck, he was crazy enough to consider wearing them tomorrow.

You regained enough energy to sit up a bit and fumble with his belt. “Need this off…”

His arms were two immovable pillars of steel and synthetic muscle. He merely watched, entertained by your struggle and growing desperation. You said his name impatiently.

“Mmm? I’m having a great time here,” he answered. Your knee to his rib wasn’t enough to even warrant a software warning, it just summoned another amused chuckle. “What do you need? Let me hear it.”

This arrogant and cocky act of his may had fooled anyone else in this moment, but not you.

“Sixty.” You paused once you unbuckled his belt to catch his gaze. “When I come home, it’s you I want to talk to. When I’m on those stupid dates, it’s you that I’m thinking about.”

You leaned in, lips almost kissing his ear. In your most sultry voice, you confessed, “And when I’m lying in bed…with my fingers in me, it’s your name on my lips.”

“F-fuck.” He felt himself tremble despite having no physical changes to his limbs. “We really should have done this earlier.”

“No time like the present, right?”

He brought his hand down to fumble with his pants and briefs, letting them fall past his hips. His hand gripped his length, guiding it through your folds. For half a second, he stilled, not long enough for you to notice. In that time he was able to appreciate the beauty of you splayed out for him, sweat beading down your chest, glistening as you panted. But best of all, was your face twisted in ecstasy, your teeth biting into your lower lip and the glazed sheen in your eyes. A view he’d store for later.

He kissed your forehead, lips still glued to your skin as he spoke. “I can’t wait to feel you.”

“Six…” you moaned as he pressed in. The rest of his name was choked off by the sheer overwhelming feeling of your connection. It was a snug fit, his cock slowly dragging over delicate nerves and then some. He pulled halfway out, thrusting at a steady and easy rhythm. You were pulled up from the bed, back arching so he could access your chest. A warm tongue dragged from your rib cage to neck.

His mouth opened, certain he’d be inspired to spew more filth in your direction but he found the words never came. Instead, his forehead dipped to rest in the hollow of your neck. Everything else faded until it was him and you, moving in sync. Your legs draped around his waist and he pressed closer, flattening you back into the sheets with his elbows bent and resting beside your face.

What he couldn’t say or put into words, he applied to his actions. Thrusting deeper, he slipped one hand between your legs, tracing the swell around your folds, wetting them before finding your clit. Slick fingers rolled around in wide teasing circles, growing tighter until he decided to find that spot he’d found with his tongue. He felt the pressure of your muscles squeezing around him, heard your immediate cry of pleasure. Every tell your body gave, he returned with soft grunts and moans of his own, with sloppy kisses and lowly murmured praise.

You think you heard a please as his fingers worked to build up the tension in your abdomen. His other arm had worked its way around your back, synthetic fingers slipping around sweat slick skin. It was a bit odd, being hugged and fucked all at once but it felt so Sixty. You wrapped your arms around what you could reach, his shoulders and the back of his head. He was close, whining, face pinched in concentration. A gleam of red light caught your eyes.

Gently, you smoothed out the curl that had fallen over his face, moving it to find the imperfection on his forehead. When your lips met the divot of android skin, Sixty let out a choked moan. He got louder when you scraped a nail on the back of his neck, the skin fading to reveal the texture of a data port.

He moaned out your name. “Sweetheart, I…I’m not…mmm, going to last if you do that.”

“That’s the point.”

Defiantly, you kissed his forehead once more and began tracing the intricate ridges of shallow circles and lines that connected his neck panelling. You felt his orgasm hit him first, the added slick allowing him to slide even deeper. His fingers continued their mission as a few swirls were all it took for you to feel the sweet pull of time and space stilling. He fucked you slow, wanting to feel every aftershock.

With care, he untangled himself from you, slipping out and laying a small kiss on your abdomen.

“Where y’going?” you slurred when he got up from the bed.

He chuckled, wondering if you thought he was going to just disappear.

“What kind of partner would I be if I left you like this? As much as I enjoy how this looks…” He toyed with your combined fluids, slipping two fingers in to smear it on his skin. Your mouth fell open when he took them out and dared to suck them clean, brown eyes locked on yours. “And tastes this good?”

You playfully hit his arm, groaning when his tongue returned to lap at your folds.

“Sixty!”

He got up with a smug grin permanently plastered on his face and stepped away to find a soft, damp cloth. Exhausted, you drifted in and out of awareness. When you opened your eyes once again, he was naked and laid out on the other side of the bed, looking apprehensive about coming into your space.

“I wasn’t sure if…” he started.

You reached out for him and he settled instantly between your arms, bumping his forehead with yours. This was usually the part of the night when he said goodbye to a guest, got up to shower and sometimes going as far as stepping out of the apartment if they planned to crash for the night. It wasn’t his thing, cuddling and lying awake to talk. Funny how his priorities had rearranged without him realizing.

“Do you feel better?” he asked, pulling you flush to his chest.

You let out a sleep weary yes of sorts, face nuzzling into the crook of his neck. He laid a gentle kiss on the top of your head, rearranged the sheets to adequately cover the both of you and settled back with an arm hugging you into his chest. The weariness that darkened your mood had long drifted away.

Tomorrow, was Valentines. He’d try to make pancakes in heart shapes, deciding he couldn’t think of anything better than spending a morning in a way that he once thought was best left for the romantics.

As he glanced down at you, your face relaxed into a peaceful slumber, his eyelids fluttered. A temptation he’d never felt before pulled him into stasis, something he never did with someone else.

He did tonight.

In the living room, a lamp was still on, its warm light illuminating what was left of the mess. The ice cream had melted into soup, wine forgotten, and chips gone stale. Crumpled tissues formed a pyramid pile like a sad shrine for a tissue box. At the center of the coffee table laid a glass vase filled with a blend of colorful roses. Their leaves were still lush and green, the petals unbruised. Sticking out was a paper note clipped to a decorative stick.

“To the most beautiful person, inside and out. You inspire me to be a better person. When you look at these, I hope they bring you the same joy that you bring me.”

Graphite smeared illegibly at the bottom of the note by a finger lacking fingerprints. The size and location of the smudge hinted at a name. A short one with a blurry S and swoopy Y.

Sixty.

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