Fiona bought charcoal, steaks, beer, and the stuff to make mojitos. She showered and picked out her favourite sunflower yellow sundress
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He can hear the music as soon as he hits the bridge and wonders whether she'd forgotten he'd be coming out tonight. Maybe she's busy?
...busy or not, she's a pretty sight in that dress. He leans on the doorframe to enjoy the view, a small smile on his face. If she doesn't notice him for a while, so much the better.
There's not a chance in hell he'll go unnoticed for more than thirty seconds. She squeals with delight and dodges around the grill, planting the knife in the wooden handrail as she passes it.
He's holding her so tight, she can barely breathe, and that's exactly what she needs right now. Eventually, the kiss tapers off, Fiona growling softly as she bites at his lips.
"There's towels laid out, and the steaks will be done in twenty minutes," she purrs next to his ear. "Missed you so fucking much, baby."
She holds that kiss as long as she can, her eyes closing again. When he parts, there is a soft smile on her lips. She glances at the steaks before following him in, headed for the kitchen to fetch him a cold bottle of beer.
She returns momentarily, with two opened bottles, placing one within his reach. "I slept," she says.
And read, and tidied, and did laundry, and did all the mundane things you do to kill time. He'll find the flat immaculate, bed made, rugs beaten, floor swept, cobwebs banished. The tiny table usually strewn with bomb components has been cleared off and covered with a table cloth. It's set for dinner with proper plates and flatware, and tiny candles in glass jars.
But more to his concern, fresh towels are draped over the side of the tub. And a couple of sets of clean clothes hanging in the wardrobe (jeans and shirts or suit, whichever he prefers).
Ramon picks up the drink and takes a swig, unbuttoning his jeans as he eyes the place. Definitely tidier than usual and he wonders what the occasion is.
'That's good.'
Dinner smells good. He's starving.
'Shame there isn't time to take a bath. You could join me.'
He sets the beer down and hits the shower. Five minutes later, he's towelling off and grabbing some clean jeans and a white shirt out of the wardrobe, thinking she's very considerate to have made the effort to have these for him.
'Do I have a comb here?' he asks her, drying off his hair. It annoys him like this, it curls when it's wet.
He smiles at her and forgets about the buttons on his shirt; just grabs her and pulls her close against him so he can feel her there before he kisses her.
'Thanks.'
It's a quiet murmur against her lips and he doesn't seem to be in any hurry to let her go.
...busy or not, she's a pretty sight in that dress. He leans on the doorframe to enjoy the view, a small smile on his face. If she doesn't notice him for a while, so much the better.
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"You're back!"
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'Yeah.'
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She might remember to be mad. Later.
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He kisses her back hard, revelling in the realness of her, they way she feels against him, the strength of her arms, the warmth of her kiss.
Fixes a lot of things, this sort of welcome.
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"There's towels laid out, and the steaks will be done in twenty minutes," she purrs next to his ear. "Missed you so fucking much, baby."
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'Won't be long.'
Has to wash that place off himself before he can do anything else.
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"I'll bring you something to drink. Beer? Or mojito?"
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He leans forward to kiss her once more, then heads towards the tub, starting to strip as he goes.
'You have a good weekend?'
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She returns momentarily, with two opened bottles, placing one within his reach. "I slept," she says.
And read, and tidied, and did laundry, and did all the mundane things you do to kill time. He'll find the flat immaculate, bed made, rugs beaten, floor swept, cobwebs banished. The tiny table usually strewn with bomb components has been cleared off and covered with a table cloth. It's set for dinner with proper plates and flatware, and tiny candles in glass jars.
But more to his concern, fresh towels are draped over the side of the tub. And a couple of sets of clean clothes hanging in the wardrobe (jeans and shirts or suit, whichever he prefers).
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'That's good.'
Dinner smells good. He's starving.
'Shame there isn't time to take a bath. You could join me.'
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He sets the beer down and hits the shower. Five minutes later, he's towelling off and grabbing some clean jeans and a white shirt out of the wardrobe, thinking she's very considerate to have made the effort to have these for him.
'Do I have a comb here?' he asks her, drying off his hair. It annoys him like this, it curls when it's wet.
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It does curl, and she loves it like that, dark and thick. She reaches up to comb her fingers through it.
"In the bathroom, yeah." All the little things, razor, toothbrush, cologne, all in their own little basket on the counter.
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'Thanks.'
It's a quiet murmur against her lips and he doesn't seem to be in any hurry to let her go.
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She holds him tight, eyes closed, giving him just the barest nod.
This is all about making him feel cherished.
She can't compete with a memory. All she can do is be herself.
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