“I like the way your hand fits in mine.” with none other than Saeran~ cx I adore your writing so much!!
A/N: I was supposed to finish this in like 1-2 hours but this ended up taking me 4 (?) hours because I got distracted LMAO. Okay anyway hope you like this. :)
He’s a man of few words.
From the first time you met, you knew. It was in the brooding look in his enchanting mint eyes, in the straight line that his lips were set in, in the vacant expression that sat on his face as he stared blankly into space, watching the world around him go by. As if he was the only one frozen, fossilised, while time marched forward.
He never said much around you at first. Not even a little “hello”. He just never seemed to see a need to. And you were fine with that. No greetings, just brief, curt, silent acknowledgements that happened in the span of a mere three seconds when the both of you locked eyes each time you met.
And look where we are now.
Reminiscing like this, on a warm, sunny day like this, just like the day you met him, brings a smile to your lips. You look down at your hand that has been taken captive by his warmer, bigger one, and you can’t help the chuckle that escapes you.
You’ve noticed a while ago that he likes to hold your hand like this. His hand wrapping over yours completely like a glove, his fingers threading through yours like they’ve been sewn together, and his palm pressing against yours firmly, allowing you to feel his warmth and faintly quickening pulse through it.
“What?” The question comes out gruff, annoyed, and it only makes you more amused by the situation.
“Nothing,” you reply, laughing as you wriggle your hand from beneath the weight of his, “You’re just so cute.”
The term is hardly pleasing to his ears, and it’s made evident when you find yourself on the receiving end of his signature glower, one that is usually reserved only for his brother.
“What– I don’t– Stop calling me that,” he stutters, immediately releasing your hand and hastily shoving his into his own pocket.
However, you reach out and grab his hand again before he can withdraw it fully, pulling it back so your hands are resting on your lap like they were before.
“You’re always holding my hand,” you remark casually, moving so you’re leaning against his shoulder, your head resting in the crook of his neck.
“Really,” he replies, shifting a little so that he can rest his head on yours.
“Yes, really.” You crack a smile, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “Why?”
“What do you mean ‘why’?” His answer is almost indignant, but you catch traces of bashfulness in his voice.
“Just. You know. Why.”
He presses his lips into a thin line, and lets your words linger in the air for a couple seconds. He doesn’t intend to answer you, but when you press him further, nudging him and sending him your best pleading look, he caves in.
“I just…” He ponders over it for a moment. And then he settles for, “I guess I like the way your hand fits in mine.”
Saeran is a man of few words. And for that reason, he doesn’t say much.
But it’s in moments like these, when he suddenly speaks his feelings as they are, when he doesn’t hide his thoughts behind harsh, rough words or silence, that you feel a jolt run through you. It’s like electricity shooting through your veins, and it causes your heart to start hammering hard against your ribcage while your breath stills completely.
And it’s in moments like these, when you lose your composure and your words are caught on the tip of your tongue, that his lips show the beginnings of a smirk and his chest rumbles with a light, teasing chuckle.
Then in an unusually bold show of affection, he brings your still entwined hands up, and presses his lips to the back of your hand.
Your cheeks heat up uncontrollably, much to your chagrin, but you don’t make any sound of protest. He lets his kiss linger for a few seconds before he pulls your hand away, and he shoots you a devilish smirk.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to.
Because his eyes and his lips say it all, and it’s more than enough for you to understand.