Little Things

There is a place at the nape of her neck that he can't get enough of. Every morning, the alarm clock wakes him at seven and even when she turns it off to let him sleep in a little bit longer, he can't help but let his eyes flutter open at that exact moment. Every morning, this routine pans out. And he rolls over, always to find the majority of the blanket tucked under her arm. And he always smiles as he moves in, letting his musky morning scent overtake her senses as a warning, a warning for her to brace herself against his scruff he's yet to shave. It hits her shoulder first as he slides closer and closer and just before his lips meet the sensitive skin, she whines, "Liam, knock it off. Can't you see I'm sleeping?"

It never ceases to put him in a good mood. His reply changes up every day, depending on their circumstance. Had they fought the night before? Had he meant to spent the night on the couch? A shrug of his shoulders dismisses her immediately as he easily tells her then, 'Consider it me catching up on all I missed the night before.' Does he have to go to work rather soon? He kisses her again and again, in that very same spot before mumbling, 'I'm going to be gone all day. I'm just gaining fuel.' But no matter what the response, she always replies the same way. Her shoulder turns towards him as she rolls onto her back and she keeps her eyes closed as he leads a hot trail from her neck, to her jaw, to her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, her temples.

And finally, she groans, "Oh, just kiss me already, will you?"

And with a laugh, he gladly obliges.

This is a morning routine he enjoys more than he can put into words. He remembers it the rest of the day and it is the last thing he thinks of before he falls asleep. But there are so many things about her he loves, about their routines. Routines are something he isn't used to. His life is a million spur of the moment plans tied together in a poor excuse of a schedule he is forced to swear by. But with her, routines feel more spontaneous than anything else he can ever dream up.

Like when she attempts to cook him something nice on the first night back from tour or a trip, with her head down and her body hunched over a cookbook, he can just taste the tension coursing through her. She left him on the couch resting, but he sneaks up behind her and places his hands gingerly on her hips, fingers dancing towards her stomach, "What's it this time? Should we order in pizza, just to be safe?"

He can feel it before she moves over it; the way her body stiffens at his touch momentarily, just before she scoffs and slips out of his grasp, "If that's how it's going to be, then maybe you should order a pizza, because you won't be getting any of my masterpiece!"

He is always quick to laugh at her playful frustration, but he never fails to notice how she holds herself after that moment, stomach sucked in, shoulders square, posture to match a ballerina's.

Or maybe how long she spends in front of a mirror as she tries on dresses before events -- he finds himself staring her down from the bed as he lingers a moment too long within the sheets. Too wrapped up in her own world to notice him, she pushes down the creases against her hips and thighs, as if the more she holds it in, the more likely she is to see the results she wishes for. He can see the disappointment in her features before she moves on to the next dress and the next and the next, until he can't take it anymore and teases her carefully, "I should call the award show, tell them to push it back a bit so we can be on time, huh?"

And she gives herself a once-over before crinkling her nose, ignoring his remark entirely, "The last one was better, wasn't it?"

He is never slow in his honest reply, "You look the most gorgeous in whatever you feel the most gorgeous in, sweetheart."

And every time -- he count on it -- she bites her lip as she turns to the mirror again and contemplates his statement repeatedly, with each dress all over again.

Pictures eventually are released, of her in the dress she spent hours picking out, and even then, the routines would move on as always. She frowns, discontent, and when he asks her what's wrong, she blushes, stammering, "I just don't like the picture, is all."

He'd once gotten her to tell him why. Something about her eyes seeming too dull, too small, too dead echoes in his brain every time she crinkles her nose in displeaure at a photograph of them together. But he could swear up and down, right and left, to Hell and back that each and every picture is nothing short of perfect, and he would mean it.

These routines, he loves. He does. Every routine, filled with her insecurities and her quirks, her predictable defensive remarks are things he could bathe himself in for the rest of his life and he'd be more than content. Because as these routines play out, they always lead up to his favorite part of it all. When her insecurities subside in a heated moment of lust and passion and they find themselves stumbling into their bedroom, she allows her carefully chosen clothes to fall to the floor and for his lips, his hands. his own body to cover her instead.

And he engraves his love for it everything into her skin with whispered words to lace up the scars in bows and make her feel secure at her most vulnerable.

Mouth against her thighs, as she gazes down at him against the heavy pillows, he mumbles between kisses, "Every inch of skin on your thighs, I love. Every mark, every freckle, every mole, every scar, I love, I love, I love."

"Liam," she sighs.

And he moves up, muscles contracting as he lifts his head to the band of her underwear. His lips graze the soft cotton against her hips as he goes on, "And everything that covers your bones here, every piece, I love, I love, I love."

She giggles, "Stop."

And he moves up to her collarbone as he recites it again, as he has before and will in the future. He kisses along her jaw, her cheeks, her closed eyelids and forehead, "And your face, that holds the smile I would sail all seven seas for, the eyes that have held me captive since we've met, the lips I couldn't live without, I love, I love, I love."

"Hush, you," she breathes out.

And he hovers over her lips as her eyes finally open to meet his and he takes her hand from her side, lifting it to his lips and against her palms and knuckles, he asks her, "Do you know why I love it all? Everything you try to hide, I love because..."

"Because you're insane?" She boldly responds with pursed lips.

And he says the same thing every time, to engrave it not only into what she always mistakes for flaws, but into her head, to make up for every bad thing she's thought about herself, to give back for all her effort and show her that she's nothing short of perfect, "Because I'm in love with you and every part of you, especially these little things."