She woke up with a start. Her lithe body pressed against me, releasing a little jolt, she lets out a breath. She makes no movement right away. Her head remains on my shoulder. Her leg still draped over my stomach. Her warmth matches the sun peeking into the tiny hotel room we snuck into just hours ago. The war continues outside but in this moment, it cannot penetrate these chipped walls.
She turns her head upwards. Eyes meet.
There is a softness to her in the mornings before she really comes to, before the walls come up. Her eyes are bright and when she looks at me she almost seems content. Then as sleep slips away so does the happy gaze. She does not look at me in a bad way when she's awake just different, guarded. I wonder if it is the war that caused her very own walls of Jericho or if it's just the way of the french. Despite my impressive track record, she's my first french woman.
She rolls onto her back and stretches out her limbs.
"Bad dream" I say with a voice still rough from sleep
She mumbles something in french. I smile. I like witnessing her in a moment where she's too sleepy to conjugate. We lay still in the silence for an unknown amount of time.
"Ship." she mummers.
"Ship?"
"I was sailing in…black?"
"Dark waters?"
"No water. Just dark. I was on a ship and I needed to get home."
"You were lost."/
"Yes." she says with more excitement in her voice. I take it she's waking up.
"Did you get home?"
"Not yet."
"You're home now." I say placatingly
"Not yet." her voice is barely audible and clearly not really for me but I can't help but take note of the wistfulness in her tone.
"I dreamt of a ship as well."
This catches her interest, she rolls on her side and props her head up in her hand to take a good look at me.
"The one you arrived here in?"
"No it was different. Real different. It was filled with flashing lights and doo dads."
"Doot dat?" she asked, her french accent peeking through her impeccable english.
"A figure of speech" I chuckle "Just a lot of buttons and machines."
She mulls it over for a moment before shrugging in defeat. She lifts her head to look out the window and I admire the contours of her long neck leading to her chest. I lift a finger to trace her jaw line. She releases a soft hum of approval. I flashback to her the night before. Us pouring ourselves over the plans. Us pulling out some whiskey to relieve the stress. Us bonding over the worry that belongs in leadership. Her tales of the resistance. My stories from the trenches. We had only known each other for a day but I felt I had known her for years. I was in the midst of explaining chicken and waffles to her when she pulled me in for a kiss. She really is a gung ho kind of girl. Our night was quick, clumsy but passionate. We didn't have to speak. What we did didn't need translation.
"We don't have long do we" I say softly
"No" she replies "They will be at the bar soon to discuss final plans."
"But we have some time?" I enquire playfully
"Not enough" she chuckles
"I can be quick"
"Quick, yes" she says before placing a chaste kiss on my lips "But then I won't be able to thoroughly enjoy."
I use my weight to push her on her back and kiss her passionately. She happily obliges. I look down into blue oasis.
"Stay."
"I can't"
"What if I make you?"
"You plan to hold me hostage, Captain?"
I love the way she says my rank with her little accent and teasing smile. There is something about a woman that can make a war almost worth it. There is something about Katrine in the morning all so worth it.
Katrine. My gung ho kind of girl.