Disclaimer: Not mine, obviously. If it were, things would be different.
At Odds
Sometimes, it isn't about the sex.
Sometimes, it's about the way her body feels against his as they lay together, clothed beneath the bedsheets. Even through her pajama, she's warm and soft, and he can't help but notice he's all rough and hard edges in comparison. But she never seems to mind, and welcomes his hands against the small of her back and the base of her skull as he guides her closer. He presses his lips to her forehead, and her eyes flutter shut, and he swears he can feel her heart thudding against his ribcage.
Sometimes, it's about the way she moves about the apartment. She has a spring in her step, most days, he notices, like she's actually happy – and maybe she is, and maybe he's the cause of it. She has this grace about her, too. It isn't feline-esque like the women in the movies he owns, and to compare her to royalty is a little too overrated, so he decides it's something unique and it's hers alone. Something almost magical that moves him in ways he never thought possible, because the flick of a wrist or the sway of a hip shouldn't make him feel like this. But they do.
Sometimes, it's about the way she looks at him. More often than not, he says or does something that makes her scowl, but sometimes he can make her smile a smile that reaches her eyes and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. Her eyes light up in that proverbial way and there's something in that stare that makes his insides knot up and quiver.
She gets this other look in her eyes sometimes, a distant, far off stare, and while that's pretty too, it's the way her eyes focus on him when he snaps her back to reality that makes his heart skip beats, because then – then, in that instant, he's all she sees.
Sometimes, it's about the things she says. They're not overtly important things, nothing that will save his life or inspire him to change the world, but they mean the world to him anyway. Because she bids him good morning each day, wishes him well in school, and greets him enthusiastically when he comes back home, and it's more than anyone's done for him before.
It's the way she laughs, too. Light and airy, and if he were romantic he'd think of pixies whenever he heard it. But he isn't romantic, so he decides simply that it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.
Sometimes, it's about the way she cries. It doesn't happen often anymore, but when it does, a part of him feels like crying with her. She'll tell him she's sorry for imposing on what little space he has to call his own, and she'll ball her fists and duck her head. She'll apologize for things he doesn't understand, things from her old life and for things she'll never have in this one, and the tears will free-fall down her cheeks and wet her skirt.
Now, he's never pretended to have the slightest clue what to do with a woman, but he knows the tears don't suit her, and it feels right every time he brushes them away.
Sometimes, it's about the little things she does around the apartment for him. She doesn't have to, but she insists on cleaning up and doing the dishes and making the bed. Once, she ran a bath for him, and he swears it was the best he'd ever taken, even if it was no different than any other he'd had before.
She cooks for him, too, when she can. He's sure he must have mentioned his preferred dishes to her at some point, but it still surprises him when she remembers and offers to make one of them. Not even his own mother put his tastes before anyone else's, and she certainly never made something especially for him.
Sometimes it's about Kei Kishimoto and what makes her her, and that's what scares him. It wouldn't be so bad, thinking with his heart instead of his dick, he figures, if she felt the same about him. But she doesn't, and sometimes, he wishes it were only about the sex.