Oh, how you loved to bully this man.

Not with words. Not with cruelty. No — you bullied him with affection, relentless and sweet, the kind of love that dug into old wounds and mended them with warmth. The kind he should’ve gotten long ago. The kind that made up for all the years he spent in shadows, unseen.

You straddled his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, arms wrapping around his neck, and kissed him — clumsy at first, because neither of you really knew what you were doing. You fumbled together, laughed into the kisses, and tried again. Practice made perfect, right?

His face flushed under the assault of affection. You peppered kisses down his jaw, across his cheek, the tip of his nose. He didn’t move — didn’t protest. His eyes fluttered shut, and he let you do whatever your heart desired.

And oh, your heart desired so much.

Your fingers slid across his chest, down to his abs, over the solid lines of muscle he probably didn’t even realize he had. Then to his arms — those arms — strong, protective, built to carry burdens far heavier than you. But now? They rested at your waist, loose and hesitant, never holding you too tight. Never assuming.

And the best part?

He didn’t stop you.

Not when you smothered his face with kisses. Not when your hands explored every sculpted inch of him with curiosity and adoration. Not even when you leaned in so close he could feel your breath. And still — not once did he make it inappropriate. Not once did he let anything shift from tender to something else.

He was a gentleman, through and through.

He didn’t love you with hunger.

He loved you with reverence.

As if your touch was holy.

And for a man who had never known softness, you were his salvation. A daily blessing. The warmth his soul quietly ached for — now given in kisses, laughs, and the way you curled up on his lap like you belonged there.

Because you did.

And he let you.

Always.