( it speaks for itself, a living thing with a beating heart: that not only had he stayed, but he'd fixed a coffee, dug into one of the dozens of books on those shelves much like she would on a rare morning off. the used grounds from the french press still waft pungent scarves of espresso about the apartment, entice her to pour a cup of her own, but he arrests her attention entirely when he shifts from the mattress. her eyes roam, not with hunger but a soft appreciation; never once had he walked towards her in so little, she's only a woman, drunk off the sight of him while she can be.
he presses the mug towards her belly, and she accepts it blindly. it doesn't burn to the touch but it's still warm. she wonders idly just how many times he can give her exactly what it is she needs without her asking for it.
he's left the book behind, split and touched, and there's a humming curiosity as to the page she'd taken him from.
she likes the way his hair's in a short disarray from sleep, from her tugging, the breadth of his shoulders and the dog tags that hang obediently above his sternum — a reminder of his story, all of the men he's been. there's a lingering of mint on her tongue. she doesn't have much to offer in the way of something to change into, but the least she can do is grant him that small bit of comfort, stripping a morning anew. )
Of course.
( she wants to kiss him, see how much of herself she can still find there — but the daylight and the two of them having detangled from that bed has a way of shying her. )
There's a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. Towels in the closet. ( fingertips tap along the side of the mug, and she almost feels silly for asking — he'd stayed this long, she doesn't want to press her luck. )
Breakfast? ( lips tuck together pensively, a raise of her brow. she should be able to prepare something simple enough while he showers, if he'll indulge her his company a little longer. )
no subject
he presses the mug towards her belly, and she accepts it blindly. it doesn't burn to the touch but it's still warm. she wonders idly just how many times he can give her exactly what it is she needs without her asking for it.
he's left the book behind, split and touched, and there's a humming curiosity as to the page she'd taken him from.
she likes the way his hair's in a short disarray from sleep, from her tugging, the breadth of his shoulders and the dog tags that hang obediently above his sternum — a reminder of his story, all of the men he's been. there's a lingering of mint on her tongue. she doesn't have much to offer in the way of something to change into, but the least she can do is grant him that small bit of comfort, stripping a morning anew. )
Of course.
( she wants to kiss him, see how much of herself she can still find there — but the daylight and the two of them having detangled from that bed has a way of shying her. )
There's a spare toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. Towels in the closet. ( fingertips tap along the side of the mug, and she almost feels silly for asking — he'd stayed this long, she doesn't want to press her luck. )
Breakfast? ( lips tuck together pensively, a raise of her brow. she should be able to prepare something simple enough while he showers, if he'll indulge her his company a little longer. )