you catch him watching you again.

not in the way that most people watch, with simple curiosity or distracted interest. francis watches like he's memorizing the slope of your throat, the way your hands move, the breath that catches in your chest when you're too aware of his presence. he watches like it's a sin, like you are one. there's shame clinging to the corners of his mouth even when he tries to smile, soft and fleeting and unpracticed, as though he isn't sure his face knows how to form something so vulnerable.

you don't push. you never do. you've learned the silence of his affection—how he brings you small things without explanation, how his fingers tremble when they rest on your lower back, how he pulls away like he’s afraid he might bruise you with too much want. he touches you like glass. he touches you like he doesn’t deserve to.

but tonight, you touch him first.

your fingers brush the back of his hand, and he stiffens, just slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. his body tells on him in little ways—his knuckles flex, his breathing shallows, his shoulders draw tighter toward his ears. he wants to be good for you, and the weight of that want sits heavy in his chest. you can feel it. the shape of it leaks through the cracks of his restraint.

in the low light of the room, he looks softer than usual. his frame is still hulking, broad and tense, but there's no threat behind it. only hesitance. only a kind of nervous reverence that makes your stomach turn over gently. you kiss him first, too, just barely—your mouth finding the corner of his, warm and slow, and when he exhales, it sounds almost like relief.