money talks, he translates.

but then again, you just have to wear earphones, do you? but it's not like he'll stop doing it. no, he won't. not when he loves showering you with gifts that he knew you deserve, the texture of your skin beneath his touch, the softness of your ears, the each every inch and part of your body, the exceptional warmth and shade of your hair. firstly, he loves you, needs you.

he makes himself known, always. morning flowers at your door. diamonds like you, cold, hard and brilliant, at your nightstand. godiva in tuesdays. freshly baked croissants and lemonade. weekend getaways to the french riviera. tiramasu. bulgari and jimmy choo for you. vicuña wool coat for you. flowers that you love growing in his garden. a tangerine tree in his living room ready for peeling just for you.

he had dipped his hands in holy water just to touch you. he is so yours. he just wanna look good for you. good for you. show you how proud he is to be yours. he loves you. and there's no logic for it, he can't help it. and that perfumes the things he rained on you. at least, that's what he believes.

he kneeled. literally. to take your shoes off himself. hands reaching forward, palms hovering your skin, not touching you but let his mind and hands move down, tracing the length of them slowly, taking his time, admiringly, worshipfully. as his eyes gazes up at you through his lashes, he smiles in a cloying loving manner. cause he knew right then and there—

you're about to scold him.