She was flowers and strawberry shampoo but chemicals and latex gloves and new books cracked open at midnight.
He was chamomile tea and the lightest hint of cologne, but burning mental and sharpened pencils and fresh biscuits being eaten on the couch with a friend.
But then they were salt and seawater, the smell of blood and sweat and fear.
She was normal shampoo and different chemicals and the new-car smell of a different place.
He was green tea and burnt biscuits and frustrated tears.
And now they are new:
She is the briskness of cold and the freshness of snow and cracked finders and an unknown enemy.
And he is chamomile tea and strawberry shampoo and new books being reopened but also the smell of old papers and hopelessness
He is fire, she is ice
But finally, they are both flowers and chamomile tea, strawberry shampoo and cologne, new books and fresh biscuits, mingling together as lightly as feathers and as carefree as the young and in love
Finally, they are water: fire and ice, love and desperation
Finally, they are home.