silvanacaptain (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
silvanacaptain) wrote2010-03-18 12:57 am
silvanacaptain) wrote2010-03-18 12:57 am
16th day of May, 2074
...where is he? Lying down, for one thing. Tangled in... blankets?
He's in bed? With sunlight streaming through the windows? When was the last time he spent the night in bed? When was the last time he had the privilege of sunlight kissing him awake?
When was the last time he even slept through the...
Oh.
Oh.
She's still here. She's not a phantom or a dream after all; reaching over, he traces the line of her hair so very gently. Disturbing her isn't part of his agenda. Not yet, anyway.
In the sunlight, she's beautiful; she was equally beautiful in the intimacy of the darkness. Did they really...
They did, and it was...
(The word of the night was lovely. He remembers.)
The tips of his fingers slide over her skin, so soft, so smooth. Her neck, her shoulder, her arm, her chest: his hand finds its way around her waist and anchors there, proudly possessive. She looks happy in her sleep, happy and satisfied, as if she's done precisely what her heart desired.
It's entirely possible he's reading too much into it, but he lets his eyes close again, feels the warmth of the light on his own skin, and smiles. More mornings ought to be like this, and more nights ought to be like last night.
Maybe they will.
He's in bed? With sunlight streaming through the windows? When was the last time he spent the night in bed? When was the last time he had the privilege of sunlight kissing him awake?
When was the last time he even slept through the...
Oh.
Oh.
She's still here. She's not a phantom or a dream after all; reaching over, he traces the line of her hair so very gently. Disturbing her isn't part of his agenda. Not yet, anyway.
In the sunlight, she's beautiful; she was equally beautiful in the intimacy of the darkness. Did they really...
They did, and it was...
(The word of the night was lovely. He remembers.)
The tips of his fingers slide over her skin, so soft, so smooth. Her neck, her shoulder, her arm, her chest: his hand finds its way around her waist and anchors there, proudly possessive. She looks happy in her sleep, happy and satisfied, as if she's done precisely what her heart desired.
It's entirely possible he's reading too much into it, but he lets his eyes close again, feels the warmth of the light on his own skin, and smiles. More mornings ought to be like this, and more nights ought to be like last night.
Maybe they will.