Summer drifted in through shuttered windows of her apartment. Her eyes half-lidded with the cotton of near-sleep as she observed him, his fingers pattering away at the keyboard like drops of rain, wisps of silver hung low over his narrowed vision.
Her legs, stretched across his, perpendicular as they both sagged on the couch, the computer cord dropped haphazardly below.
As he worked, as Claire found amusement in the furrow of his brow, his concentration bundling him up like some nerve center, like he was electricity beneath her calves, as she watched-
She blinked.
It was a dull sort of realization. A mild sensation of swallowing ash. It bled across her spine, raked itself along her neck and insides. It was the nonchalance of his shirt draped carelessly across her lamp from one of his many nights stayed over. It pronounced itself in the way her hands played with his hair even as he worked, the way he leaned into it without conscious direction.
It was in the way she was the embodiment of indifference as fire crept casually across her belly.
"Fuck," she blinked again.
Hope, startled, turned to her.
"Uh, what?"
She pursed her lips almost quizzically, tasting something imaginary, her brow raised.
"Shit, I think I love you."
She said it not unlike one would comment on the weather.
Hope's jaw, slightly agape. Lips suddenly a little parched.
"Light, I-"
"Oh," she brushed it off, smiling slightly. "Don't mind it. No pressure, it was just something I noticed."
She meant it, too, already yawning and propping her knees up, her wiggling toes wrinkling his trousers.
"It just caught me off guard," Hope insisted. "I love you, too. Have for a while."
She laughed.
"Cool, cool. That's good."
"Yeah," Hope replied.
And he resumed working, and she resumed watching.
Author's Note: Just wanted to write a short, sweet piece. I like the idea of romance being less like the idea of romance and more about how comfortable both partners are with each other.