So what did you think I would say?
He's always warmer than her. Its part of what keeps her coming back, part of the familiarity, the comfort in the little things she can count on with him. Somewhere along the line death threats and four tiny scars on the back her hand started to become home, a safety she rarely found anywhere else.
She liked the way his body moved when he slept, though she was rarely awake to experience it. She liked the rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his eyelids, the feel of his skin next to hers, the sound of his heart because and the feel of his pulse when she woke up. It was always stronger after she slept, a fact neither of them ever questioned.
She liked the way his hands rested on her hips when she sat in his lap, the feeling of her legs squeezed against his in the too small chair, his fingers pressing into her hips because he liked the way she laughed.
She liked the sound of perpetual stubble bristling against silver, the way he stopped breathing as it trailed over his Adam's apple and the way it jumped when he swallowed as soon as she pulled the blade away.
She liked the ease at which they slide into their back and forth banter, jabs and threats that meant nothing because neither of them would carry it out, at least not yet.
It was always not yet.
Mostly, she liked that he didn't care if she slipped into black eyes with a shock of energy from her skin to his palm. They were both friends and foes, lovers and enemies, but they were a team. The second most perfect team, their movements so in sync and fluid it was like ballet, a dangerous ballet that neither of them would ever finish.
Because finishing meant failing.
She liked the way his body moved when he slept, though she was rarely awake to experience it. She liked the rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his eyelids, the feel of his skin next to hers, the sound of his heart because and the feel of his pulse when she woke up. It was always stronger after she slept, a fact neither of them ever questioned.
She liked the way his hands rested on her hips when she sat in his lap, the feeling of her legs squeezed against his in the too small chair, his fingers pressing into her hips because he liked the way she laughed.
She liked the sound of perpetual stubble bristling against silver, the way he stopped breathing as it trailed over his Adam's apple and the way it jumped when he swallowed as soon as she pulled the blade away.
She liked the ease at which they slide into their back and forth banter, jabs and threats that meant nothing because neither of them would carry it out, at least not yet.
It was always not yet.
Mostly, she liked that he didn't care if she slipped into black eyes with a shock of energy from her skin to his palm. They were both friends and foes, lovers and enemies, but they were a team. The second most perfect team, their movements so in sync and fluid it was like ballet, a dangerous ballet that neither of them would ever finish.
Because finishing meant failing.