Sunlight streamed in through the bedroom window, simple checkered curtains drawn back to reveal pale sand and vast ocean. Raindrops from the night's storm adorned the window.
The softening effect of the rain was evident in comparison to the loud colors that characterized the island: instead of the vivacious azure that typically decked the sky and ocean, a softer grey-blue was found. Instead of blinding, yellow sunlight, a softer haze of white casted over the island.
Daybreak after the rain.
Stirring in bed, blue eyes blinked open, easily adjusting to the soft light. His movements were restricted, a detriment of little importance when he had so gladly insisted on intruding into her humble abode and sleeping in her bed meant for one. Thus, he carefully minimized his shifting to avoid waking the the smaller girl curled against his chest, still fast asleep.
He didn't mean to find extravagance or his normal luxuries here. He only meant to find her.
Despite his own lack of clothing, perhaps most all of his acquaintance would find it odd for this girl to have remained fully clothed. It was unusual for him to spend the night at the house of another without having his needs sated. But he was acutely aware of her denial to his satisfaction—not now, not yet, she was not ready.
Still in his early morning laze, he languidly observed her. Glossy, rich chocolate hair; shut eyes hiding warm brown sugar; smooth, caramel skin. She was no Jeanne. She had not hair of flax and gold, or eyes of French country skies, or fair skin. But what he saw with his eyes seemed to leave a lingering impression on his heart. She was not delicate or fair, far from epitomizing the image of western beauty. But she was still his petite fleur.
He watched her wake herself. Half-lidded amber eyes stared blearily at him in her sleep-wrought stupor. And as she said "bon matin" and latched her arms around his torso in quiet affection, he felt something flutter within his chest—a feeling he had never permitted himself to feel since his Jeanne took off to the sky.
He contented himself in resting his head against her own. He had no grounds to rush her; he was in no hurry to tangibly claim her as his. He could be satisfied with her being his fleur as of now.
She was no Jeanne. But still he indulged, he relished, he cherished. He took her in.
Maybe it was time to let go.