You don’t rush things. You never have.

So there’s no reason to start now.

You’re right here, cupping White’s face like it’s something precious, thumbs warm where they rest along his jaw. You lean in and press a soft kiss just beneath one eye, unthinking and gentle, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Then another at the corner of his mouth. Another at his temple. None of them are hurried. Each kiss is deliberate, placed with the quiet confidence of someone who knows exactly how this affects him and is choosing to do it anyway.

White huffs out a small, helpless laugh, shoulders lifting as if he’s trying to brace himself for what’s coming.

“You’re doing it again,” he murmurs. There’s no real complaint there, just fond resignation. His eyes slip half-lidded despite himself.

You smile against his skin, and instead of answering, you kiss him again.

Along the bridge of his nose this time. The faint crease between his brows. Then just under his ear, that spot you know gets him every time.

He shivers, subtle but unmistakable.

White melts slowly, piece by piece. His hands curl into your shirt, fingers fisting in the fabric like he needs something solid to hold onto. His breath stutters when you murmur something soft between kisses. Praise, maybe. Reassurance.

The kind of words that land deeper when they come wrapped in touch.

You linger at his cheek, lips brushing like you’re committing the shape of him to memory. “You deserve this,” you say quietly, almost to yourself, before pressing one last kiss to his lips. Gentle. Lingering. More promise than punctuation.

White exhales and lets his forehead drop to your shoulder, completely undone. “You’re going to spoil me,” he mutters.

You just laugh softly and kiss him again, like that was always the plan.