A/N: I love all versions/covers of this song, but I've been listening to Michael Buble's song a lot lately, and I was momentarily inspired. Enjoy!
Birds flying high
You know how I feel
Sun in the sky
You know how I feel
Breeze driftin' on by
You know how I feel
It's a new dawn
It's a new day
It's a new life
For me
And I'm feeling good
Feeling Good" - Michael Buble
The morning heat tickles her into awareness. It's warm underneath the covers, warm even when she kicks them off and rests her bare legs atop the sheets. She brings her arms over her head and stretches, reaches, pushes her hands against the headboard and pulls her shoulders tight. Aches sit in her muscles in the most delicious places -- her thighs, her biceps, her tongue.
She opens her eyes to the sun, to this still hour, to the After. Beside her, he sleeps soundly, the corners of his mouth turned up. There's a pink bruise blooming on his neck, right under his ear, right underneath the place she had smelled his cologne. Gently she places her thumb against it. His heart pumps his pulse against her finger.
His skin is so lovely against hers as she rolls into him, their legs entangled, her stomach pressed against his arm, her lips coming forward to rest against his shoulder. A new habit, a new, luxurious thing: she slides her hand up his back slow, slow, and runs her fingers up through his hair. Velvet.
"Mmm," he sighs. It's deep and throaty and she remembers what his voice felt like against her hip. His breath had brushed across her lower stomach, the band of her underwear; it had been hard to breathe, hard to believe that it was all happening, all of it right then in the night when everything had, surprisingly, gone perfectly.
"Miss Evans," he mumbles, moving onto his back and pulling her on top of him. He reaches for the back of her head and kisses her forehead for a long moment.
And though it's unbelievable, she chooses to believe -- chooses this, chooses him, chooses this sun and this morning and all the possible sunrises in his arms. She pulls back and he opens his eyes. He's somewhat blind without his glasses, but he stares at her, the gold around his pupils lengthening as they focus, and he sees her, all of her. Certainty grows in her stomach and whispers in her heart that this? This is real.
"Mister Potter," she whispers. "How are you on this fine morning?"
That contradicting smile grows on his face -- charming and naughty and shy all at once, the smile of a man with everything he's ever wanted in his hands. He kisses her, less urgent than the first one that they shared the evening past, less frantic; he kisses her with the patience of a lifetime, tender, lingering.
"I'm feeling good."