[oom] The Little Things
What is the distance between one's old life and one's new life? In truth, two days. Four weeks is the distance between galaxies, she thinks. She thinks of her life before Milliways and it seems a thing that happened to someone else.
She is so wrapped up in the wonder of it all, it takes her a week to notice that her door is back. She rises early and there is a delicious soreness in her muscles from their exertions. She lays in bed and reads while he runs, shifting over onto his side of the bed, stealing the last of his warmth from the sheets.
She asks Bar for an orchid, something with a gentle fragrance that won't assault his sensibilities. She brings it home (home) and asks his opinion. He starts out scenting the orchid and ends up with his nose buried in her hair, nuzzling the nape of her neck. She laughs, begging him to let her find a place for it. He takes it from her and sets it on the windowsill before sweeping her into his arms. It's still there, and quite content.
She wears turtle necks all the time now.
I wear your mark in my skin.
At night, she sleeps with her head resting on his shoulder, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist. Drifting up through the layers of consciousness, she listens to the even sound of his breath against her ear. Even in his sleep, his fingertips draw lazy circles on her stomach, testing the limits of her restraint. Some nights, she breaks far too easily, and he complains not in the least.
She wants to watch the sun setting on the lake. He tells her he'll meet her in a few minutes, and she precedes him out the back door of the bar. She is standing on the lakeshore, her hands rubbing her upper arms against the chill when he wraps the grey shawl around her shoulders. It isn't as warm as he is, but it does quite nicely nonetheless.
She peppers him with questions constantly, and he answers them as best he can, turning them back to her on occasion, and she also answers, as best she can. They talk about a thousand and one things, and each question leads to another and another. They spend days learning about one another.
She hasn't told him about @ yet. She thinks when the time is right, she'll know. She doesn't want to abuse his trust, but neither does she want him to think she's only with him while she's waiting for someone else. Because that is the farthest thing from the truth.
She is with him. There is nothing else in her world that she knows to be true anymore but that one simple fact. She belongs to him. And he belongs to her.
Mated.
The rest will sort itself out, one way or another.
She is so wrapped up in the wonder of it all, it takes her a week to notice that her door is back. She rises early and there is a delicious soreness in her muscles from their exertions. She lays in bed and reads while he runs, shifting over onto his side of the bed, stealing the last of his warmth from the sheets.
She asks Bar for an orchid, something with a gentle fragrance that won't assault his sensibilities. She brings it home (home) and asks his opinion. He starts out scenting the orchid and ends up with his nose buried in her hair, nuzzling the nape of her neck. She laughs, begging him to let her find a place for it. He takes it from her and sets it on the windowsill before sweeping her into his arms. It's still there, and quite content.
She wears turtle necks all the time now.
I wear your mark in my skin.
At night, she sleeps with her head resting on his shoulder, his arm wrapped possessively around her waist. Drifting up through the layers of consciousness, she listens to the even sound of his breath against her ear. Even in his sleep, his fingertips draw lazy circles on her stomach, testing the limits of her restraint. Some nights, she breaks far too easily, and he complains not in the least.
She wants to watch the sun setting on the lake. He tells her he'll meet her in a few minutes, and she precedes him out the back door of the bar. She is standing on the lakeshore, her hands rubbing her upper arms against the chill when he wraps the grey shawl around her shoulders. It isn't as warm as he is, but it does quite nicely nonetheless.
She peppers him with questions constantly, and he answers them as best he can, turning them back to her on occasion, and she also answers, as best she can. They talk about a thousand and one things, and each question leads to another and another. They spend days learning about one another.
She hasn't told him about @ yet. She thinks when the time is right, she'll know. She doesn't want to abuse his trust, but neither does she want him to think she's only with him while she's waiting for someone else. Because that is the farthest thing from the truth.
She is with him. There is nothing else in her world that she knows to be true anymore but that one simple fact. She belongs to him. And he belongs to her.
Mated.
The rest will sort itself out, one way or another.