It's late, her body pressed against me. My arms wrapped around her waist. I can feel her even breathing, her chest rising and falling. She's fast asleep. Her eyelids hiding her beautiful gray eyes from my view. Her blonde curls spread out against the pillow.
I want to talk to her. To kiss her. To touch her. To just be with her. She turns to face me. I stare at her beautiful face, getting that usual rush of adrenaline that I get whenever I look at her. They say love is like a drug, and in some ways it is. It makes you irrational. But love is selfish. You want more. You want it for yourself if others have it. Love is pain. It's gut wrenching, heart-breaking, irresistible pain. Love is beauty. It shows you the perfection in a person. Love is hate. Pure and utter hatred for every second that you aren't with them. Love is perfect and flawed. Wonderful and terrible. Love is indescribable.
Her eyes flutter open and lock with mine. Far too soon, she buries her face in my chest, and I tighten my grip around her. Holding her like I never want to let go, which I don't.
"I love you" she mumbles out.
I faint smile finds its way to my lips.
"I love you too." I whisper back.
I lied. Love is perfectly describable. Love is Annabeth in my arms.