He'd been walking about the road, kicking dead leaves moodily in his wake. It wasn't like Johnny Rockfort to actually wake up before her. It was even less like him to wake up before the sun rose.
But there were moments, like this, where he couldn't go back to sleep. The memories hit him on all of his five senses, after the dreams. His skin remembered the lash of the belt and the coldness of its cheap brass buckle. His ears still echoed with the hiss of the whip as it fell on his face or on his shoulders. His eyes shone in memorial fear at his father's blood-shot gaze. He could still taste the blood in his mouth. He could still smell the vomit on the floor.
So he walked. He didn't want to be this. He didn`t want to be this kind of man. Yes, he slept with a girl who was just a tad too young. Couldn't he have waited? He didn't think she would have allowed it. But he loved her. He didn't want to do things to her that she didn't want. He never laid a hand on her silky skin unless she asked.
Sometimes he wondered, though.
Sometimes he was afraid. What if he became like his father – a violent drunkard who drove his wife to madness? He couldn't do that to her – to his pure, beautiful Greek princess. So when that happened, he left their bed. He walked, and then he walked more.
He sat under the bridge, to watch the sun rise over the trees. Then he admired the day as it grew in light, and found himself basking in the situation – clearing his mind. However long he stayed didn't matter – he just needed to make sure this was right, to confirm to himself that he was doing the right thing – for her.
Her voice came out like a gentle swan feather landing from above. "Johnny?"
He didn't turn. "Hey. How'd you know where to find me?"
"You know, I'm just a kid, but I know," she replied, quietly. "I know you like this place. I hear you leave, sometimes." There wasn't even the trace of half a reproach in her voice.
"Sorry, Iphi." He sighed. "I just didn't want to wake you up."
She took a hesitant step towards him.
"It was a dream again, wasn't it?" He just nodded – his arm opened in half an invitation, half a beg for her to come nestle against him.
"I love you," she murmured, softly, as she slipped herself in his arms. He smiled against her hair. I love you too, doll. "Let's go home", he said, with uncharacteristic gentleness. He couldn't say it, but the emotion was in every one of his gestures. "I worry about you," he murmured, quietly – his way of saying it.
"Let's go and hide under the covers," she said. "We can make a picnic in bed." He smirked, and shook his head.
"Silly girl. Save me from myself, why don't you?" But he followed her, much like a large bastard hound follows a pure maiden, with dogged loyalty.
He was hers, now and forever. No matter what anyone said or thought.