Page 92 of Habibi: Always and Forever

The rain had intensified outside, tapping a steady rhythm that mirrored the quickening beat in my chest. He brushed his lips against mine, not a kiss, just the ghost of one, daring me to respond. I didn’t hesitate, letting my own lips meet his with equal measure.

The blanket pooled around us, a warm cocoon, and every touch, every brush of our bodies, became a conversation of its own. Fingers intertwined, hands exploring lightly but deliberately, shoulders pressed together. The physicality wasn’t frantic, it was slow and teasing.

When he finally pulled back slightly, just enough to look at me, his grin was edged with triumph. “You’re insufferable,” he said softly.

“And you love it,” I replied, letting my hand linger on his chest, feeling the steady thrum of warmth beneath the fabric.

He leaned in again, this time resting his forehead against mine, lips brushing my temple. “Yes,” he admitted, “and I’m not planning on stopping.”

Matt’s forehead stayed pressed against mine, the warmth of his breath fanning across my skin. Every brush of our arms and shoulders through the blanket felt electric, as if the fabric itself had absorbed the charge between us.

“You’re dangerously close,” I murmured, voice husky despite myself.

“Am I?” he whispered back, tilting his head so our noses brushed. “I could be closer.”

I shivered at the suggestion, letting my hand rest on the side of his neck, feeling the subtle tension in the muscles, the small give of warmth beneath my palm.

He responded instantly, leaning just enough that the air between our lips was thick with anticipation, our breaths mingling, soft and uneven.

My fingers drifted from his neck to his shoulder, following the line of muscle under the fabric, and he let out a quiet, contented hum.

“Well,” he said, voice low and teasing, “this is going to be a problem if we keep sitting like this.”

“Why’s that?” I asked, letting my hand inch closer, daring him without moving away.

“Because I might not stop,” he said, lips brushing the side of my mouth, a whisper of a kiss that left me wanting more.

I laughed softly, breathless, leaning into him. “Maybe that’s the idea.”

He responded by pressing closer, our bodies perfectly aligned under the blanket, shoulders and knees touching, the warmth spreading between us.

His hands moved, one tracing along my arm, the other settling lightly at my waist, drawing me subtly into him.

Every inch of contact was electric, a silent conversation carried through the brush of skin, the press of shoulders, the intertwining of fingers.

The rain outside drummed a steady rhythm, a private soundtrack to the tension that had wrapped around us.

Our lips met again, slow, teasing, lingering at the edges, exploring without urgency but with clear intent.

The sofa seemed to disappear under us, leaving only the shared warmth, the quiet hum of our breaths, and the delicious ache of anticipation.

Time seemed to bend. Heartbeats syncing, breaths catching and releasing together, a rhythm that had no beginning or end, only the steady build and ebb of closeness.

The sofa, the room, even the rain against the window faded into insignificance; there was only the pull and give of two forms entwined, warm and insistent, like currents weaving through the same water.

Our energy was a quiet storm: rising, cresting, and folding into itself, each shiver and tremor a note in a melody that existed solely between us.

In that space, the world outside ceased to exist: only the shared warmth, the tension and release, and the profound sense of having found something infinite in a finite moment.

When we collapsed into each other’s arms once the storm had passed, the room felt impossibly still, holding the echo of everything that had passed: An invisible trace of connection, deep and unshakable.

Matt’s head rested lightly against my chest, our arms tangled in a lazy, unhurried embrace. Every exhale was shared, a gentle rhythm that mirrored the fading pulse of what had come before.

The world outside remained distant. The rain a soft percussion, the city a blurred echo. While inside, even the smallest movements spoke volumes. A fingertip tracing the curve of an arm, a quiet hum in response to a brush of hair, the subtle press of shoulders in sync.

Time stretched and contracted, measured only by the slow rise and fall of our chests, the quiet heat that had settled in our limbs, the way the room seemed to fold around us.

It was not urgency that held us together, but a calm, deliberate closeness, a sense that the space between us could be infinite and contained at once.

At some point, one of us shifted slightly, just enough to catch the other’s gaze.

There was laughter there, soft and breathless, a shared acknowledgment of the intimacy that needed no words.

Even in stillness, the energy lingered like the echo of a storm that had passed, leaving only warmth and quiet certainty.

The minutes blurred after that, conversation giving way to the kind of quiet that feels less like an absence and more like a space held deliberately. At some point, his hand found mine under the blanket.

The last thing I remember was the steady weight of him beside me, his breathing syncing with mine, and the faint taste of bergamot still lingering between us.

When I woke, the room was dim, the blanket tangled around our legs, and Matt was still there: warm, close, entirely unbothered by the fact that we’d fallen asleep on the sofa.

For once, I decided not to move. For once, I let everything pleasantly happen to me.