Your eyes were heavy with satisfaction as Bruno's steady heart gently beat against your ear. His slender fingers brushed through your disheveled hair (a work his own doing). Your hand rested on his bare chest, rising and falling with each warm breath. His calm, almost whispy voice broke the silence, "I have to go..."
You looked up at your lover, his gaze avoiding yours. You let a single digit graze the beauty of his midnight locks, "Do you?"
Bruno's eyes drooped. He never liked leaving you. In fact, he hated it. He dreaded having to leave you alone; prey to potential predators. His—dare I say—occupation was dangerous. Someti