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breathtaking, adj.
Those mornings when we kiss and surrender for an hour before we say a single word.
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Sometimes they awake together, clothed.
Sometimes not.
Whichever way, it doesn't matter. What matters is if he can still hear her heartbeat, if she's still warm against his body; if she's alive.
He tries to do everything right. For her, he tries to do everything exactly right.
They are apart more than they are together. Duty. Work. Calls. The cruel devil which he now names Fate. He tries to remain as close as possible, though, even if she pulls away. He may try to meet her in specific places at specific times. He may send her a letter or three. And, every time, scribble a brief, quick "I love you" at the end. She knows, of course, but it's never pointless to remind her anyway. Because it counts, and it helps, and his love is plenty.
Each second he moves on. But missing her –– missing her is inevitable. The nights grow cold and colder without her, and he stupidly hopes the door will open and she'll step through. Not say a word, strip down and cuddle in bed with him.
He's got used to her silences.
When she does return, they're always a little awkward. Not jarringly so. Just a little. They don't quite know where to start, where to begin, but gradually they find their pace, and they're friends again. They talk, they don't talk, they tease, they laugh, they eat together, read together –– and, somehow, it's all routine.
Occasionally she'll try and play matchmaker. She might point out an attractive lady walking past, encourage him to let her introduce a lady she met the other week, or simply query whether he has found somebody yet.
It took him several months to realise why she does this.
Never do they refer to each other as "lover".
They aren't lovers.
There isn't really a label for their relationship.
If the time is right, she'll follow him home, and spend the night with him. Ask–– 'Can I share the same bed as you?'
He'll look at her, shrug like it's no big deal, and nod. 'Sure.'
It is a big deal. Every moment with her is a big deal. Sharing a bed with her is a big deal –– he never sleeps more peacefully. They might hug, they might talk, they might not do anything.
Or, she may roll over, kiss his lips.
The following morning, her hair is always messy and she looks the least bit graceful, and he always thinks it a privilege to wake up to her. He might leave her to sleep longer, or nudge her awake. He tends to avoid the latter, considering she's always grumpy when he does that. Funny he thinks this way –– she's a friend. He shouldn't know her like this.
One time, he brings her coffee. She's already awake, and while he passes over the mug, he gives her a kiss too. Briefly, breaks away, and as they both hold the mug between them, their gaze lingers.
This, he realises, is what they have become.
Together, alone, they are themselves. Free from the chains of their rules and duties. Dressed in nothing but baggy shirts, the scent of coffee filling the room, relaxed and okay. This, he realises, is truly the only time they are okay.
Happy.
Living with her, dying with her –– it's all he ever wants.
She will go again. Disappear. And they will wait until another time. Someday soon, he wishes.
The coffee mug is out of his possession. He sits on the edge of the bed, smiles lazily. It's the excruciating pace of his heart which forces him to say, 'Natasha?' A temporary pause. She has her full attention on him, and they both expect the worse. 'If...' He lowers his eyes, 'If our circumstances were different... better than this––' He has to be brave and look at her. So he does, and the words tumble from his lips, 'Would you marry me?'
Different.
If their circumstances were different.
If Fate were sweet.
Natasha doesn't need much time to think. She probably had her answer years ago, but she's never been all too certain. Instead, she reaches over to take his hand in hers, studies his palm, trailing her thumb across, then down to his wrist.
A life together.
Something beautiful.
'I hope.'
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And when she gets his gun, he's begging, 'Babe, stay, stay, stay...'
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author's note: Don't ask, because I don't know either.
The breathtaking definition was written by David Leviathan. The lyrics are from Robbers by The 1975.
