I suppose his lips are soft, although his are the only pair I've ever touched, so the judgement is uneducated. They're chapped and always a little uncoordinated, but there's love in him. It's as bountiful as his aura and more genuine than I could've ever thought possible. I never thought it'd be directed towards me, he seemed so entranced by the heiress… To find a friend who wasn't intimidated by me or my titles seemed like some far-off fantasy, and to find him to be so attractive was possibly one of the cruelest of jokes.

But all of that was behind us. Now his lips pressed against the nape of my neck as he held me from behind, arms wrapped around my waist. He held me for hours, whispering sweet nothings as he gently nibbled my earlobe. I surrendered entirely to him, to his love and to his being. No longer did I have to be responsible, or strong, or elegant or courteous. I could drop the facade I masked myself against the public with and be nothing but myself.

He was so kind, so caring. He was happy just to be around me, as if my presence fueled his mood. He treated me as if I were a queen, molded from star-stuff, and admired my body in the same manner.

His hands were still soft, and I already felt nostalgic, the days where they'd be rough and calloused so soon upon us. He traced them up and down my waist and hips, hundreds of hearts and smiley faces gently traced into the skin of my thigh. In the few short months we'd been together, my feelings for him had grown from a childish crush into true, irrevocable love for the man he was, is, and could be.