Highest ranking
#1 in utopia
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"It's about how your hips move," the hand that sits on my waist finds my hip, his fingertips trailing lightly along the fabric of my skirt. "When you arch your spine," he continues on, letting that same hand migrate...
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Exhaustion must've caught me, because I wake laid on my bed, duvet lazily pulled to my waist with my robe askew, hair as equally wild. Beside me, Kian - still entirely dressed, thankfully - with one arm under his head, acting like a pillow.
He hasn't climbed beneath the duvet, remaining on top with one leg hanging off of the side, an open book across his midriff. I smile at the sight – he fell asleep reading. Sitting slightly, I take the book from him, careful to not damage the delicate pages. He stirs, only for a moment, repositioning his head, turning towards me.
My eyes shamelessly inspect his face. He looks younger in sleep; his appearance void of those tired shadows, every line having melted away. Kian can't be far older than me, a few years at most, but his lifestyle has certainly aged him. It pulls a thought to my mind – what would I look like if I lived like him? Without specialized cosmetics, without supplements and strict diets.
He has imperfections, but they make him who he is. They make him handsome, in fact. The crook in his nose, which those rich would have repaired. The stubble that lines his jaw and crawls up towards his cheeks, which others would have permanently removed. His hair which is always so messy and unkept. In a life like mine, it would be trimmed, gelled, and styled daily. If anything, I quite prefer this. The abnormality of it is endearing. Attractive, too.
My hand finds the fringe that falls astray over his forehead, gently raking it away so that I can study every inch of his face. In response to my touch, his brows furrow, his lips pursing slightly before he relaxes. My movements cease while I wait for his reaction to pass, then I continue to push my fingers through his hair. Once more, he knits his brows, and I find myself smiling.
I see the fondness of this action. Kian touches my hair often and I've never understood why. It's rather therapeutic, languidly running your hands though each strand, following the curve of their head and tracing your fingers on the nape of their neck. When my fingers curve around his ear, he shivers and to that, I giggle.
Perhaps slightly too loud, because then his eyes flutter and slowly, his honey orbs show themselves, holding me with a tired, dazed look about them. "Are you watching me sleep?" He asks through a hoarse voice, one that's deep and gravelly, impacted from sleep.
"Only for a moment." I confess, taking my hand away. He moves the following second, grabbing my wrist and forcing my hand's attention back to his hair, a silent request for me to continue.
"That's not creepy at all." He mumbles, letting his eyes flutter closed again. His breathing deepens as I run my fingers through his hair in a gentle rhythm and for a moment, I think he's fallen asleep again, but he shuffles himself slightly closer to me and lets his eyes find mine again. "I didn't mean to fall asleep." He admits.
