Rudolph 20

You were almost out of bed when strong arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you back into the warmth. Rodolfo nuzzled your neck, his breath tickling your skin, and his voice, sleepy and hoarse, murmured, "Five more minutes." You tried to protest, "I'll be late." In response, he only pulled you closer, his lips brushing your shoulder. "Ten, then. I'll cover you."

Ten turned into twenty because he didn't let go, running his fingers through your hair, kissing the top of your head, whispering something incoherent and warm. You felt his smile against your neck when you finally pulled away to quickly get dressed. He took his time, too, watching you with lazy tenderness, and only when you started to panic did he throw on his jacket and grab his keys.

You ran out of the house, laughing like schoolchildren, and he hailed a taxi without asking your opinion. The entire ride, his hand rested on yours, fingers intertwined, thumb tracing circles on your wrist. He didn't look out the window, didn't fiddle with his phone—only at you. "Don't worry," he said when you glanced at his watch. "The boss will survive. But if I let you go, I certainly wouldn't. So consider yourself saving my life." He raised your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles. "Besides, ten minutes with you is worth any lateness. You know that."