The Couch

A "cuddly" romance prose about a woman admiring her sleeping husband.

He was asleep, of that she was sure. She peeked her head into the living room, and saw all the lights dimmed. The fireplace was crackling and alight; casting dancing shadows throughout the room. There were various books and nic-nacs littering the place in an attempt at an aesthetic feel. Somewhere in the house a cuckoo clock struck eight. She lingered in the doorway, staring at him asleep on the couch.

She inched closer from the kitchen, making sure her footfalls were silent along the carpet. She made her way around the side of the couch and looked down upon him. His head was engulfed by flowing locks of curled hair, and his lips were curved into a peaceful smile. Every couple of seconds, he'd breathe in and out; a contended sigh occasionally escaping his lips. She smiled, and continued to watch him sleep. It was moments like these that reminded her of everything she loved about him. That no matter how gruff he could be when awake, when asleep, he was her angel.

She reached down to push some of his hair out of his face, but it tumbled back down into its former place shortly after she released it. She giggled to herself, and cupped her mouth to stop. I don't want him to wake. He looks so happy. Again, she reached down and pulled his hair back. She leaned in and kissed him with the utmost delicateness on the forehead. She abated her way around to the front of the couch, and gently lifted his left arm up. She positioned herself against his body, and lay facing her back to his front. Again, with care and slow pace, she lowered his arm and closed her eyes. Amidst the gentle crackling of the fireplace, and the still calm of the night, she found herself drifting off.

Within moments her breathing had synced with his own. She exhaled a gentle, contented sigh, and his lips smiled a little wider.