My brows furrow when he says that he's sore, but I understand the good kind of sore. There's the sore you feel after a really good game on the ice, and I imagine it's a lot like that but even better. His lips press to my hand and I track his every movement, feeling sluggish and sated yet still so hyper-focused on him.

"So do you," I tell him breathlessly, cupping his cheek and sweeping a thumb tenderly under his eye. A small laugh tumbles from my lips, honest and soft and purely for him. My eyes are twinkling. "I think we should practice at this. A lot. Make sure we get it just right."