I turn on my side, seizing the opportunity of his continued sleep to study the man next to me. Henry and I have existed in each other’s lives long enough where I have his physical features memorized. I know his hair and eye color and a lot of his mannerisms. He always has a pen stuck in his pocket. Wears a tie with or without a blazer on. Has at least ten pairs of fun socks he rotates through. His eyes are the same brown of the chocolate chips he threw at me.

Watching him while he sleeps peacefully is different. Awake, he’s never quiet and contemplative. Under the light of a new day, he appears pensive and deep in thought, pondering the secrets of the universe through his dreams. His lips are slightly parted, soft, deep breaths puffing from his mouth. I wonder what he’s thinking about. It almost looks like he’s smiling serenely, keeping a secret only he’s privy to. There’s a slight curl to his hair. I noticed yesterday he didn’t bother styling it, the strands falling to whatever natural position they wanted, winding up in disarray by the end of the evening. I like it better this way; relaxed. Unhinged. A part of him not everyone gets to see. It’s not put together or trying too hard. It’s simply Henry, no glitz or glamor required.

His jaw is chiseled and sharp, with flawless and unblemished skin. All the features of his face are proportionate, and there’s something inherently hot and sexy about him. Maybe it’s his eyes, or maybe it’s the vulnerability he’s given me glimpses of. Whatever it is, I can’t bring myself to look away.

My assessment gets cut short as he stirs, shifting on the mattress. He extends his arm and pulls me flush against him, tugging me into his body. He expels a content sigh and I bite my lip, not wanting to move away. Not wanting space. I want to stay right here, in his hold, forever.

I haven’t allowed myself to think about what might happen after this weekend. Yes, I want him, but daydreaming about a future with Henry never seemed plausible. Lying here, our legs intertwined, his warm feet tucked under my socked ones, I let my walls down, imagining what maybe feels like.

I snuggle further into him, inhaling his scent. His shirt smells clean and I rest my cheek against the thin material, listening to the rhythmic beating of his heart. Yesterday, he admitted he needed to stop touching me because he wants more. I was on the verge of telling him I want more, too, but something prevented me. I couldn’t get the sentence out, too scared to reveal everything.