A/N: Because hiatus always seems like time for angst, but right now, I can do with a bit (lots) of fluff.
Standard disclaimer applies.
Ethereal. That's how it feels. The smooth cotton sheets against her bare back, the light breeze silently whipping back the translucent curtains, sunlight streaming through the cracks. She blinks away the sleep in her eyes, the gleaming sun refusing her the view of what she knows would be a clear, blue sky, as if to further the illusion, as if protecting – no, prolonging – a fantasy.
She welcomes it. Eyes fluttering shut again, she breathes in deep the smell of clean, crisp sheets, letting her other senses indulge in the moment, letting her mind be filled to the brim with every tiny detail – the wind caressing her shoulders, the coolness of the silk against her cheek, the quietness of room, save for the even breathing of the man lying next to her that has her stomach fluttering and her heart swelling – choking – with a feeling she cannot yet name.
Hesitantly, she rolls over and scoots slowly forward, until she was centimetres away from his back, but not quite touching. Her forehead seeks comfort against the dip between his shoulder blades. She pictures his broad shoulders, lean waist, strong hips, and involuntarily shudders. Their closeness allows her to re-familiarise herself with the scent of his skin – light sweat lingering from their exertions a few hours previous, a trace of her own coconut shower gel from when he indulged her with a bubble bath, and something overwhelmingly masculine, tangy, irreplaceable and addictive, that she can only label as Jane.
A low rumble from his chest has her sighing – a pleasure-filled sigh, nowadays easily outnumbering sighs of resignation and ones of tiredness. Perhaps she has unknowingly spoken aloud. Eyes still closed, she waits for the telltale signs of his wakening – the deeper breaths, little grunts and murmurs at the back of his throat – and then he's carefully turning around, as if already aware of her near presence.
She instinctively nudges back, eyes popping open to stare at him with rapt attention.
"Hmm."
Despite his closed eyes, she acknowledges his grunt as a sign of wakefulness, but says nothing in reply, a smile spreading as she watches him repeatedly wrinkling his nose – perhaps trying to ease a discomfort.
"Stop laughing at me, woman."
His words are drowsy with sleep. She only grins wider, a clenched hand finally succumbing to temptation, smoothing along his thick eyebrows, tracing the wrinkles – laugh lines, she thinks – at the corner of his eyes, painting a pattern down his cheeks – roughened by the morning stubbles, skimming past a spot there she knows that never fails to make him wild.
Her stomach flutters. Finding no reason to do otherwise, she lets herself edge closer, and presses her lips to his nose, nipping teasingly as she pulls back. His hand smoothes up her arm, firmly grasps her neck and pulls her in, clumsily seeking her lips with eyes still firmly shut.
They both sigh with pleasure at the contact. Already she's letting him in and he's nipping at her lip. Her hands edge up to grasp at his ears, pressing up to feel his body against her skin. She feels him pulling her even closer by the waist as their hips align. She gasps at the contact, his mouth already swallowing her whimpers as he smirks against her lips.
But already, he's loosening his grip, smoothing his hand soothingly over her back. Up, down, up, down. He presses a few short kisses against her lips, sighs as he ceases.
She smiles at his glazed eyes.
"Hi."
"Hi."
She snuggles up to him, and holds his hand hostage.
It's strange, she thinks, to see their hands clasp together. His, seemingly engulfing her feminine ones – to the outsiders' eyes, it may be the strong one, but she knows how battered and bruised it really is – how strength in this man lies not so much in the physical but deep inside him, only letting those close enough to him witness it as he rises to the top. She likes to think that she is his rock, and wonders, wishes – hopes to God that he shares her thoughts. Her heart soars at the thought, tries to rein in the overwhelming emotions she knows that must be spilling out of her eyes. She closes her eyes and breathes, absentmindedly stroking his finger, round and round in circles.
"Thinking about putting a ring on me?" She startles, and turns to look at him. His words may be teasing, but she still sees the uncertainties behind his blue-green eyes.
"In your dreams," she scoffs, her tone unconvincing even to her own ears.
"Been there, done that," his hand holds tight onto hers. The intensity of his gaze catches her off guard, but she dares not break eye contact.
"You know I don't care about that."
"But dear Teresa, I want to give it to you," his eyes shining in the morning light. "The heart wants what the heart wants. Surely you wouldn't deny me of that."
Her mouth goes dry. Her eyes feel warm. Her hands suddenly sweaty in his. She wonders if he can feel her heartbeat. The affection in his eyes unmistakable, she cannot find it in herself to look away.
She knows. She knew. She's known for months now. Every time he wakes her with kisses and freshly brewed coffee. Every time he tugs her hand with his into his jacket pocket. Every time she feels him breath in her hair. Yet it still unravels her, amazes her.
She pulls his hand in for a kiss – a terrible attempt at concealing her growing grin, she knows – and pats his cheek affectionately.
"Why don't you ask me again properly. I might just say yes."
Fin.