The Crest

                                    

                                          


                          
When she awakens from the exhaustion of her tears, she finds herself in a protective hold, his one arm snaked around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head. The gentle thrumming of his constant heartbeat setting the pace for her solitude, the tufts of his sweet breath enveloping her in a cloud of security. 
                          
She hopes he's sleeping, fearing that one day he will grow tired of her, tired of how wholeheartedly he cares for her, tired of how she constantly sees him as a beacon of hope, a lighthouse, in her dark night. She buries herself further into his neck, placing her lips on the area where his shoulder meets his neck, the slight movement causing him to hold her a little tighter. The trail of her briny tears stain his chest and she's embarrassed by her emotional outburst, but he won't have it. 
                          
Ever the observant man, he knows the torrent of emotions that rage her mind, the one that sets her heart along a dangerous course. She is one who deserves the utmost care, and he holds her like she is the finest pearl at the bottom of the sea, only opening for him. He made a promise to himself a long time ago, back when he needed to send her home safely, back when he gave her the metal band adorning her finger, back when he hadn't even thought of giving her the pleasure that he could give her now, to love her even if she couldn't love him back, even if she wasn't his to be had. 
                          
One dangerous event after another, separation after separation, the persistent current of yearning undulating unyieldingly through their beings, the constant of having each other's physical presence in their lives was new to them. 
                          
When they finally realized this, in the quiet of their Swiss bedroom, with only the ticking of the grandfather clock that aligned with the beating of their hearts, did they relent. The frivolities of courting were long gone, for they had pledged themselves to each other eternally, from the rings that never left their fingers in their years apart, to the ever-present portrait of her tear stained face that decorated his home in the North, and extending to the recorded messages that she listened to endlessly under the covers in Seoul every night, aching for his warmth. 
                          
He moves his head back to see her features, her beauty relentless even when shrouded with sadness. She wants so badly sometimes to let him go, free him from her shackles, but at the same time she longs to be selfish, and so she moves her lips so they rest on his and breathes the sweetest saranghae that he wants to wake up every morning to, her words tingling on his pouty lips long after she's done. 
                          
A small smile full of longing clears on his angular face and he returns her endearment with a gentle force. It's only then does she feel him on her thigh, threatening to press against her. He shifts his hips away, wanting to shield her from his corporeal response, afraid she would misread his intentions. But she knows him, and in that moment, she is acutely aware of their nakedness, the heat radiating from his furnace, the cool air on her back. And even still, she is safe in his arms, a security she felt nowhere else, a surety that no money or materialistic comfort could ever buy. 
                          
She stares down at him, hypnotized by his throbbing growth, and his face burns in chagrin as he attempts to divert her gaze. She is long gone, though, and with her delicate hand having a mind of its own, she makes a fist around him, soft at first, but when she hears the shiver in his breath, his sweet breath, which has become her favorite air to breathe, she gains more confidence. 
                          
She wants to pleasure him, longs to return the ecstasy he selflessly gives her. He had always refused her, believing that her innocence shouldn't be subjected to his physical gratification, but in that moment, he sees her hunger, and with reluctance, acquiesces, craving to be her willing victim. He never imagined her in that way in the North, no, he wouldn't allow his mind to stray in that direction. But once she gave herself to him, his mind would drift to her and her face when it was flushed with the bliss he gave her. He would quickly admonish himself, though, believing that the self-reproach would dampen his craving for her, but nevertheless it was futile.