With each huff of breath that crawls over the bareness of my skin, jolts of electricity scuttle down my spine and send the corners of my lips twitching upward. From beneath my bangs I watch him. His hair is mussed with sleep, and the taut lines of his face that clip the mask in place are replaced by soft, relaxed features and a smile that is mine and mine alone. These mornings are my favourites – the mornings when I awake not to the clawed clutches of departing nightmares but to soft hands wrapped around my waist, brushing over the tattoo etched onto my back – a subconscious apology. These hands promise safety.
When he wakes, I don't try to hide my wandering eyes, and our smiles are perfect reflections of each other.
"Good morning." His voice is croaky with sleep and laden with his smiles.
It is this Roy I love the most; the man behind the uniform without the stiff shoulders and twitching fingers, and who smiles instead of frowns. Wrapped in my ocean of bed sheets, I watch him climb out of bed and run slender fingers through his hair with a yawn that takes up half his face. He pads along the floor around the bed until he is at my side and I have to roll over, cocooned in the sheets to peer up at him. And then his lips press against mine and I am lost in him once more.
