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pillow // cardinal copia // 300 words, gn, sfw

His hair is soft, still slightly damp after a long evening shower. Greying strands slip through your fingers like silk when you comb them back, massaging the skin underneath with a gentle press of your fingertips.

Copia breathes against you, low exhales, eyes closed. His lips are slightly parted, pink and beautifully freckled. You cling to the illusion that they’re still swollen with your kisses, tasting like sleep and the summery strawberry wine from dinner.

He is out like a light, pillowed on the softness of your belly, a movie running in the background with the volume all the way down. He is more interesting, always. You want to trace the crows feet that run underneath his closed eyes, count the lashes that kiss his cheeks. Instead you continue to play with his hair to soothe him deeper.

You move from his forehead to his ear, still red from the hot water. When you brush a finger over his sideburns he smiles, perhaps subconsciously, then releases a loud snore that reaches even through the fabric of your shirt. His moustache twitches like the whiskers of a mouse, and he turns his face until his nose is pressed against your abdomen, nuzzling.

With access to the back of his head you continue to run your fingers over his scalp. He is a deceivingly sweet sleeper, letting go of his temper and sass only when his lids flutter shut. The tv flickers in the background and you find yourself closing your eyes against the intrusion, lulled by the rhythmic movements.

It is a warm night. You can hear the crickets chirping through the open window as you fall asleep with the tickle of his breath against your skin and a soft breeze on your cheeks.