Nothing about him is gentle or soft. I look at him, standing strong, trying to avoid the lure of muscles twitching under thick white cotton. I want to reach out and touch him, to feel skin on skin, but I can only wait.

Later, we are alone on a hilltop, and he is shirtless in the heat. I try to focus on the distant view, think of anything but the way my heart rate begins to increase. As he moves towards me, he has no idea of the feelings in my head.
Torturous almost.
Wars have spiralled from less passionate feelings.

I think of Italy. He had a job to do; I went along for the ride. As we travelled cheaply on a transport ferry, standing between cargo and crates, I felt safe as I clung to his arm.

Even when I'm cranky, he makes me feel better. He doesn't do emotion particularly well; you could hold a revolver to his head and he wouldn't flinch. But he makes up for it in so many ways.

I come back to the now. I gaze at him, dappled in pale sunlight. Standing tall, he towers above me. Micro-fine hairs glisten in the sun. A sun that casts shadows between rippling abs.

I hear the sound of metal on metal. I hit pause as the key turns in the door. The death race commute is over, and he has come home.

Glancing at the TV, he laughs as he questions:
"Not the home videos again, surely?"

Then he kisses me, and the evening begins.