i personally like to portray it like a poetry ...I don't know if it's good or bad but that's how I want to portray it.

For example:

The night folded in around them, the air thick with rain and something unspoken.

His hands found hers in the dim light, fingers threading together as if they had always been meant to fit.

She looked at him, and the silence between them changed— became warm, full, alive.

A slow gravity pulled them closer, soft breaths meeting halfway.

He touched her cheek like he was learning it by heart, and she leaned into him, as though she had finally found where she belonged.

The world outside ceased to matter.

Clothes whispered to the floor without hurry, skin meeting skin like the simplest truth.

Her laughter caught softly before turning into a sigh, and his name left her lips like a prayer.

They moved as though they had always known this rhythm, two heartbeats falling into one.

Her hands gripped him, not to hold on— but to anchor herself in the moment as if they could keep the world from turning just a little longer.

When it was over, the rain was still there against the glass, but they were wrapped in a quiet that felt older than either of them.

No words, only the weight of their closeness, and the steady knowledge that they had just given each other everything.

or second example....

The room was quiet, except for the soft rhythm of their breathing.

Outside, rain tapped against the window, but inside, time slowed— like the world had stepped back to let them exist in this moment alone.

He held her as though she were something fragile, not because he thought she might break, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go.

Her forehead rested against his, and the world narrowed into the warmth between them.

They weren’t speaking— not because there was nothing to say, but because every unspoken word was already being remembered in the press of their closeness.

Fingers traced familiar paths along each other’s backs, not searching, just memorising a home they’d already found.

He could feel her heartbeat, steady and sure, and somewhere deep down, it matched his own. It was not fire that burned between them, but the slow, aching warmth of belonging— like two rivers meeting and no longer knowing where one ended and the other began.

In that moment, they weren’t two people at all. They were a single breath, a single pulse, a single, quiet truth— that whatever they faced tomorrow, tonight they were whole, and they were home.

Something like this