Anniversary

Now, today might not be the round five, or the big decade. But today’s three years. You believe that warrants something a little different.

Usually, this is where the morning would go: You feel your hand sliding down her perfect geometry, her hips rolling forward while she’s half-conscious, slit coming into contact with your morning wood. She’d wake up halfway through the first thrust, moan something unintelligible yet hot against your jaw, and you’d both pretend the slow grind toward the hour of lunch counted as being productive.

But it’s as you say: today warrants something slightly different.

She blinks up at you, bleary yet beautiful, and her mouth curves into that little puppy-smile she forces for the crowds, and you force out of her.

“Yujin,” you say to her, quietly.

She mumbles something that isn’t quite words.

“Yujin,” you say again.

One eye cracks open proper. Then the other. “Hi,” she whispers, voice shot to hell from sleep.

“If you’re about to ask me to get on top, the answer is no. I’m still recovering.”

You laugh. “That’s not—”

“Because technically,” she continues, already warming up, “what you did last night counts as a war crime in at least twelve countries. I looked it up.”

You smile, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, let your thumb trace the arc of her cheekbone. “Happy anniversary.”

“Mmm.” She shifts, rolls her hips just enough to make her point, and her smile widens when you inhale sharply. “Happy anniversary to you, too.”

You smile again.

“On second thought—”, she goes to palm your hardness, devious smile to boot, “—maybe I would like to stick to tradition. You get me?”

You do. It’s a good tradition—reliable, mutually beneficial, leaves you both breathless and sweaty and weirdly wanting to hydrate. But this morning, watching her yawn and squint against the light and press her cold feet against your calves, you find yourself hesitating.

“Actually,” you say, and she raises an eyebrow. “Can we—can I just look at you for a second?”

Suspicion flickers across her face. “That’s weird.”

“It’s romantic.”

“It’s suspicious,” she decides, stretching. The sheet slips, and you get an eyeful of everything in your periphery. “What did you do? Did you forget to get me something? 

“No.”

“Did you forget to book dinner?”

“No.”

“Did you—” She props herself up on one elbow, and the sheet falls further. You’re a gentleman but you’re not a saint. You’re gonna ogle. “Did you cheat on me with Wonyoung?”

“That was one time,” you deadpan, “and you let me.”

“Okay, then—”

“I love you.”

The words land differently on her than they usually do. Usually they’re punctuation—dropped between gasps as you fuck her, murmured against her cunt while you worship her. This time, though, they’re the whole sentence, standing on its own, and it makes her go oh-so very still.

Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend?”

You laugh, and she relaxes incrementally. “I just thought maybe we could try something different.” You trace the line of her shoulder, the dip of her waist, the jut of her hip. “I wanted to tell you things. The stuff I don’t say when we’re—”

“Fucking?”

“Being busy,” you amend, and she snorts. “I love the way you laugh at your own shitty jokes. I love that you still get embarrassed when I catch you singing in the kitchen. I love that you leave your books facedown on the nightstand even though it drives me crazy up the wall.”

Yujin stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. Then, slowly, something softens behind her eyes.

“Your turn,” you encourage.

“You’re really good with your mouth.”

You roll your eyes. “Is that your final answer?”

She goes quiet for a long moment. Then, her fingers find yours under the sheet, lace together, squeeze.

“When you pick me up at the airport.”

“The airport?”

“Mhm.” She shifts closer. “Because no matter what time I fly in—whether it’s the afternoon when you’re supposed to be at work or when you’re tired at the dead of night—after a long schedule, an even longer flight, what feels like even longer dealing with paparazzi, cameras blinding me, and all I want to do is go home…” She tilts her chin up, meets your eyes. “The first thing I see when I get out of there is you, waiting for me. And I feel like I’m there already.”

Your throat feels tight. Your chest feels tighter. 

She laughs and kisses the corner of your mouth. Then the other corner. Then your nose, jaw, forehead.

“I love that you remember my coffee order,” she kisses back down into your lips. “I love that you let me steal your clothes. I love your little butt that’s just perfect for some therapeutic squeezing.

“I love that you drool in your sleep,” you declare back. “I love that you leave your hair ties everywhere. I love that you trust me enough to fall apart.”

Your hand slides lower, cups the curve of her hip, thumb tracing circles into the bone. She’s so warm. Her thigh hooks over your waist and suddenly her cunt is pressed against you, slick and ready and—God this is perfect.

“I love you,” you say again.

“I love you too,” she says, pressing another kiss to you. “Now, are we done being sentimental? Or are we going to fuck?” 

“That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I’m a romantic person.”

“You’ve called our anniversary a reminder that you tolerate me.”

“I stand by that.”

You roll on top of her in faux anger, settle between her thighs, watch her eyes go dark and focused. Her nails dig into your shoulders. Her hips lift, searching.

“Happy anniversary,” you tell her.

She pulls you by the back of the neck, bites your bottom lip, smiles against your mouth.

“Come on and make it really happy, then.”