Soap

Morning greets you with silence. You lazily reach your hand to his side of the bed, expecting to encounter the warmth of his shoulder, but find only a battered pillow that still retains his faint scent.

Your heart skips a beat, but then calms when you hear muffled noises coming from the kitchen. The clink of dishes, the hiss of steam, and a quiet, audible murmur.

Half asleep, you wrap yourself in his uniform T-shirt, left on the back of a chair, and tiptoe towards the smell of coffee.

Soap stands with his back to you by the stove. He's wearing only loose sweatpants, the lamplight softly gilding his shoulders and the intricate patterns of his tattoo.

“Good morning, ” you say hoarsely, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe.

He turns around, and his face lights up with that same warm smile that once made you lose your head. His eyes, the color of a calm sea now, look at you intently, as if checking to see if you slept well.

"I wanted to make it before you woke up, " his voice was low, a little hoarse after yesterday's long journey, but so familiar. "The surprise was a failure."

He puts down his shoulder blade and steps toward you, pulling you into an embrace. You nuzzle into his chest, feeling his warm skin, feeling his strong arms gently press you against him.