She had not become accustomed to the twilight cold. Not yet. Fall here infiltrates the pores and the soul, not like the clime she'd just landed from. Her bare feet hesitate at the soggy grass, and without a word, he comes to her side, bends down, and picks her up. Prince charming magnificent. This moment is the memory of a thing she dreamed of in the midst of the rage and fury and misery of a past she'd sooner forget. She is unsure whether or not she is dreaming now.
He carries her with ease across the lawn. She is the air he breathes. He does not need anything more. Not now, anyway. When they are inside the cottage, he dips her down on the sofa like a precious thing, and sets her on top of him.
They are quiet for some time. His fingers trace her hairline and memorize it. Her brow-bone, her little jaw.
Yes. It is all he needs. She eases into him.
He is all sinew, bone and strength. He holds her like she will break, there, on top of him, and for the world he would not risk that. There is so much power in that chest, a calm and wonder. He is lean, he is man, he is sure of himself. And yet he shakes.
"Can I kiss you?"
The question is shy, hovering through the cottage and past the heat of their bodies.
She smiles as though she never has before. Her heart is a stirring bird, midwinter, plumage out and trilling. She winds her fingers into his dark curls.
Yes. It is enough.
1 hour ago