[God, does he ever. How could he not, when she's warm and close, and he can feel the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, the steady rhythm of her heart]
[It feels like a luxury, to have this; it feels like he's somehow been granted a single perfect moment. There's a slow, swooping, dizzying flood of utter gratitude - the sense, buried somewhere way down deep, that there was a long, long time when he would have given anything at all for a taste of what he has right now]
[He lets himself be moved back from the ledge - seems perfectly willing to follow her lead wherever she wants to move them, as long as they can stay this way just a little while longer]
And that stokes the heat in her chest and the flush in her cheeks as well, spreads her selfish, indulgent smile even further, lets her heart speed, just a little.
Actually falling back to the rooftop is not entirely intentional, but the tarmac of the roof is warm and the company is good, so that's something. She laughs a little, surprised, and then just happy. Which is kind of stupid, but being stupidly happy is kind of how things have been going for a while, so may as well roll with it]
[There's a brief spark of surprise when they fall backward - but it is warm, and she's even closer, now, and that's - good, that's better than good, even if he can't quite keep his cheeks from growing warmer with the increased proximity]
[Her laughter is contagious; he finds himself laughing, too, breathless and content, caught up in the moment]
[She likes him with color in his cheeks; it suits him. The laughter, too, and somehow prompting that laughter, she likes that even better, and as his giggles feed back into hers, there's a flare of satisfaction and accomplishment.
Eventually she settles down, laughed out, plenty of color in her own cheeks. And then she just gazes over at him, expression unapologetically soft and comfortable, a broad, relaxed smile curving her lips]
[She looks good like this, the flushed cheeks and the easy smile, the way her hair spills out under her onto the rooftop in a hopeless tangle. Some part of him thrums with joy to see her like this, relaxed and comfortable, and it's impossible not to mirror that expression - not to radiate content and affection in return]
[(Some other part of him, deeper down inside, aches a little, too aware of the curve of her lips and the fact that he can smell the almond scent of her shampoo. But that's normal, by now; that's so common it's like set dressing on the stage of his life, just everyday backdrop. It's been there so long that he hardly registers it, anymore)]
[It's increasingly difficult to know what's hers and what's his as the echo chamber of their emotions continues to resonate; increasingly difficult to care. What's important is the tousle of his hair, bright in the sun, and the crinkle of his eyes and the pink curve of his lips and the constellation of his freckles and yes, she wants this--is glad for just this--for this much.
Her arm is still slung loose over his waist, thumb brushing idly at the rise of his hip. And she knows she needs to be careful, so only bumps her knee against his; an invitation]
[He's conscious of every tiny detail: the feel of her jacket under his fingertips, all starchy military lines - the warmth of her, pressed in this close - the almost-ticklish brush of her thumb against his hip, sparking something bright and aware in its wake]
[And because he's half lost in her, because he can feel the intention, he knows that the touch of her knee is an invitation - scoots in, a little closer, so that there's barely a hand's width between them]
[From here she can look over the tops of her frames to count his eyelashes, can almost feel the light wash of his breath matching the rise and fall under her hand. It prompts a wavery heat mirage of a feeling, a flicker of some sort of nervous energy before she can shove it away. But there's no reason for him to worry about it or really even notice; prooobably gotta be closer even than this to tell how much warmer her cheeks have gone, so it's fine,]
[(It is actually quite nice and more than she'd expected and she really can't complain)]
[The arm looped around her tightens a little, careful; his hand lifts, almost cautious, to stroke at her hair]
...this okay?
[The same kind of nervous energy shivers through him, a shade too warm; he's aware, still, of her thumb on his hip. He catches the tendrils of the feeling that flickers through her; ducks his head, cheeks growing darker]
[She lets out a soft little sound at the contact, at both that it happened and that it happened unforced, and she flares with surprise and that strange nervous anticipation again, like approaching the drop on a roller coaster.
It feels undeniably nice, and she doesn't (want to) stop herself from leaning into the touch. It does make it more difficult to hide the heat over her cheeks, but tradeoffs]
[There's an odd little lurch at that, the impulse to backpedal, to ask if it's what she wants. But... he knows already, doesn't he? The way she leans into it, the way she doesn't want to stop herself, the underlying nervous anticipation. He can feel it, already]
[He can't quite tamp down the sense of wonder that rises up in him in response - can't quite help feeling how lucky he is, to be here on the rooftop with her, running his fingers through her hair not because they're falling apart after some nightmare of a game, but just because. The wave of affection that radiates out from him is soft, and warm, and constant, suffused with that ache that never quite leaves; his fingers are very gentle, as they comb through the tangles]
[She lets out a kind of shivery breath, and ducks her head a little--not to escape his touch in the least, but perhaps so that he won't quite be able to catch her expression. She attempts to hide her emotions as well, with less success: she lets though peeks of embarrassment, bashful and self-conscious and maybe too greedy, a stoked warmth that spreads further through her the closer he is and the gentler he becomes]
[He catches the emotions and reflects assurance back her way: not too greedy, never too greedy. She could ask for anything, and he would give it to her. Something like this, something as sweet as this is, feels like a privilege - like he's being allowed it, and there's a messy tangle of gratitude and warmth that surges up to press out toward her]
[He hand keeps moving, careful, against her hair; he doesn't mean to do it, hasn't noticed he is, but he's leaning in toward her, like a plant pressing nearer the sun]
[She looks back up, grips a little tighter at his side with a hot thrill of tension--a slight spike of anxiety--admonishment, want better, he deserves better. That thrum of tension doesn't quite fade, but encouragement and admiration follow to soothe, don't ever settle, take what he wants for he deserves it all and more.]
[He hesitates, at that reaction; the unconscious shift toward her, to close the handspan between them and deepen the embrace, stutters to a stop. The motion of his hand falters for an instant, in her hair, before it picks up again, just as slow, just as gentle]
[Some wordless question reaches out toward her, soft and seeking - feeling around the edges of that tension, that anxiety, as though to ask, what does she want? And if there's a thread of anxiety of his own down under that (if it gets worse at the notion that she would ever just take what he wants without considering herself) he tempers it by sending reassurance and encouragement her way]
[A muffled frustration, shame and resignation chasing on its heels before she can fully replace it all with apology instead. The nervous energy shifts more towards just nervous, before that fades to familiar acceptance as well.
She offers a small smile and nods, movements slow as if trying not to spook him again.]
...'Sides. What do I get outta lying to you? I trust you. So--so I want you to trust me.
[This rings faintly resigned as well, though it's as honest as anything she's felt, a desire as strong as all those that were tougher to say aloud. Her cheeks stay flushed]
[His chest is a tangled mess of feelings, all of them bright and hot and immediate. Assurance crowds out her way, layers upon layers of it - and underneath that, held toward her like an offer, earnest and awkward, is the soft intensity of his trust]
[Returns a small smile, a glance up at him before lowering her lashes. It's not that she'd thought he didn't, but still swells something tight in her chest to hear it said--to feel it]
Yeah...yeah. So--I ain't gonna do nothing to betray it, okay? Not if I got any choice. So...you don't gotta worry, okay?
[Searches her face again, for a long couple of seconds - the color in her cheeks, and the soft, dark swoop of her lashes, and the way her lips curve into that smile]
...okay.
[He nods, slow - a little lost in the swell of feelings in her chest and in his own]
[He takes a breath in, careful - takes another, and scoots in closer, so that the handspan of space between them is gone, arm coming up around her to hug her closer]
[Surely her urges must be bleeding through by mistake, but that doesn't stop her from shifting her hand up to press warm into his back, pulling him closer as well. Her smile goes a little bashful, the warm feeling spreading further, to her fingertips, down towards her feet. It's enough that even the fresh reminder of his lack of heartbeat isn't enough to dull the hum of tension; hers speeds quickly enough for both of them.]
[There's tension thrumming through him, too - a low buzz that shivers in slowly and settles to stay. This, too, seems like backdrop: something so common he's learned how to ignore it, by now]
[...mostly]
[It's harder, somehow, when he can feel how quickly her heart's beating - when he's this close to the bashful curve of her smile. His cheeks creep slowly darker; his mouth is very dry, suddenly. There's something flustered and warm, almost longing, in among all the rest]
[For a long, long few moments, he stays very still, trying to tamp it down]
[Then, with undertones of uncertainty, of caution, of don't-do-this-you-are-an-idiot-please-stop-before-you-ruin this:]
What you said earlier. About, like. Not asking for that promise.
[That rollercoaster feeling again, and she darts her tongue out quick, to wet dry lips. When she finally speaks, her voice is a little gravelly, though whether it's due to his feelings or her own is hard to tell]
[His eyes catch on the motion of her tongue; he can't quite fight down the surge of heat that shivers through him in response]
[He swallows, with difficulty, nerves edging in on the sidelines to join that steady buzz of tension, mingling with the simple pleasure of being close to her, of being held]
[He can still shut up; he doesn't have to be greedy, doesn't have to ruin it like last time]
[But somehow, his traitor mouth is saying:]
Did you, like.
Did you ever think it over? After... after that one night, I mean.
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Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
[God, does he ever. How could he not, when she's warm and close, and he can feel the gentle rise and fall of her breathing, the steady rhythm of her heart]
[It feels like a luxury, to have this; it feels like he's somehow been granted a single perfect moment. There's a slow, swooping, dizzying flood of utter gratitude - the sense, buried somewhere way down deep, that there was a long, long time when he would have given anything at all for a taste of what he has right now]
[He lets himself be moved back from the ledge - seems perfectly willing to follow her lead wherever she wants to move them, as long as they can stay this way just a little while longer]
Re: Day 235 - Emotion Share
And that stokes the heat in her chest and the flush in her cheeks as well, spreads her selfish, indulgent smile even further, lets her heart speed, just a little.
Actually falling back to the rooftop is not entirely intentional, but the tarmac of the roof is warm and the company is good, so that's something. She laughs a little, surprised, and then just happy. Which is kind of stupid, but being stupidly happy is kind of how things have been going for a while, so may as well roll with it]
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[Her laughter is contagious; he finds himself laughing, too, breathless and content, caught up in the moment]
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Eventually she settles down, laughed out, plenty of color in her own cheeks. And then she just gazes over at him, expression unapologetically soft and comfortable, a broad, relaxed smile curving her lips]
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[(Some other part of him, deeper down inside, aches a little, too aware of the curve of her lips and the fact that he can smell the almond scent of her shampoo. But that's normal, by now; that's so common it's like set dressing on the stage of his life, just everyday backdrop. It's been there so long that he hardly registers it, anymore)]
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Her arm is still slung loose over his waist, thumb brushing idly at the rise of his hip. And she knows she needs to be careful, so only bumps her knee against his; an invitation]
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[And because he's half lost in her, because he can feel the intention, he knows that the touch of her knee is an invitation - scoots in, a little closer, so that there's barely a hand's width between them]
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[(It is actually quite nice and more than she'd expected and she really can't complain)]
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...this okay?
[The same kind of nervous energy shivers through him, a shade too warm; he's aware, still, of her thumb on his hip. He catches the tendrils of the feeling that flickers through her; ducks his head, cheeks growing darker]
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It feels undeniably nice, and she doesn't (want to) stop herself from leaning into the touch. It does make it more difficult to hide the heat over her cheeks, but tradeoffs]
...'S fine, if you want.
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[He can't quite tamp down the sense of wonder that rises up in him in response - can't quite help feeling how lucky he is, to be here on the rooftop with her, running his fingers through her hair not because they're falling apart after some nightmare of a game, but just because. The wave of affection that radiates out from him is soft, and warm, and constant, suffused with that ache that never quite leaves; his fingers are very gentle, as they comb through the tangles]
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[He hand keeps moving, careful, against her hair; he doesn't mean to do it, hasn't noticed he is, but he's leaning in toward her, like a plant pressing nearer the sun]
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[Some wordless question reaches out toward her, soft and seeking - feeling around the edges of that tension, that anxiety, as though to ask, what does she want? And if there's a thread of anxiety of his own down under that (if it gets worse at the notion that she would ever just take what he wants without considering herself) he tempers it by sending reassurance and encouragement her way]
...hey. This still okay?
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She offers a small smile and nods, movements slow as if trying not to spook him again.]
...If it wasn't okay, I'd say something. Okay?
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[His chest feels too full; that ache that's usually just background seems like it might swallow him whole]
...promise?
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[Mostly teasing, but going more quiet and honest]
...'Sides. What do I get outta lying to you? I trust you. So--so I want you to trust me.
[This rings faintly resigned as well, though it's as honest as anything she's felt, a desire as strong as all those that were tougher to say aloud. Her cheeks stay flushed]
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[His chest is a tangled mess of feelings, all of them bright and hot and immediate. Assurance crowds out her way, layers upon layers of it - and underneath that, held toward her like an offer, earnest and awkward, is the soft intensity of his trust]
More than anyone.
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Yeah...yeah. So--I ain't gonna do nothing to betray it, okay? Not if I got any choice. So...you don't gotta worry, okay?
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...okay.
[He nods, slow - a little lost in the swell of feelings in her chest and in his own]
[He takes a breath in, careful - takes another, and scoots in closer, so that the handspan of space between them is gone, arm coming up around her to hug her closer]
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[...mostly]
[It's harder, somehow, when he can feel how quickly her heart's beating - when he's this close to the bashful curve of her smile. His cheeks creep slowly darker; his mouth is very dry, suddenly. There's something flustered and warm, almost longing, in among all the rest]
[For a long, long few moments, he stays very still, trying to tamp it down]
[Then, with undertones of uncertainty, of caution, of don't-do-this-you-are-an-idiot-please-stop-before-you-ruin this:]
What you said earlier. About, like. Not asking for that promise.
...did you mean that?
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...Like I said. Got no reason to lie.
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[He swallows, with difficulty, nerves edging in on the sidelines to join that steady buzz of tension, mingling with the simple pleasure of being close to her, of being held]
[He can still shut up; he doesn't have to be greedy, doesn't have to ruin it like last time]
[But somehow, his traitor mouth is saying:]
Did you, like.
Did you ever think it over? After... after that one night, I mean.
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