Your POV
I lean against the doorway, watching Timothée. He's reading on the couch, his legs crossed in front of him, feet resting on the coffee table. His brown curls frame his face, and his eyebrows are furrowed in concentration. He holds the book in one hand, and absentmindedly traces his fingers around his thigh with his other. I watch his long fingers, dazed for a moment, before walking over and laying on the couch, leaning against his lanky figure.
"Hey," he says softly, tearing his eyes away from the book and looking down at me. I lay my head on his lap and he adjusts his book so that he can see it.
"Read to me?" I ask. He nods, placing his free hand on my stomach, tracing it lightly with those long fingers. It gives me butterflies, and I close my eyes as he starts reading.
"When I came home to West Egg that night I was afraid for a moment that my house was on fire. Two o'clock and the whole corner of the peninsula was blazing with light which fell unreal on the shrubbery and made thin elongating glints upon the roadside wires," he reads. The Great Gatsby - one of my favorites.
"Turning the corner, I saw that it was Gatsby's house, lit from the tower cellar. At first I thought it was another party, a wild rout that had resolved itself into "hide-and-go-seek" or "sardines-in-the-box" with all the house thrown open to the game." His voice is so beautiful; he flows over each word with a calm demeanor. His fingers still slowly move around my stomach, and every so often they graze the exposed skin near my waist which seems to ignite me.
As he reads, it starts to rain outside. I open my eyes and watch through our floor-length windows as the drizzle coats the city. Eventually I close them again, listening to the sound of rain against the windows and his soft voice.
I don't know when I drift to sleep, still laying on his lap, but I do. I sleep peacefully and dreamlessly, and wake up about an hour later. I slowly open my eyes. The living room is darker - it must be around five now. The gray sky casts a deeper shadow over everything.
I look up and realize that Timmy fell asleep too. His head rests against the couch, his curls splayed in a halo around his head. He breaths quietly through his nose, and his perfect features are completely expressionless and still. I reach up and trace my finger delicately over his eyebrows, across his cheekbones, and down his nose.
His eyes flutter open and he smiles.
"Sorry. I can't help myself when you look like that," I whisper to him.
"It's fine. I'm hungry," he says. I'm still laying in his lap, and on queue I hear his stomach grumble.
"Let's order something?" I ask.
"Absolutely."