So, this came to me on a poetic whim, and I really, really wanted to try something a bit more poetic, but I'm not sure how I did. Either way I hope all you Velsea fans enjoy the fluffy drabble!
E a s y.
Being with him is easy.
It's effortless.
It's like breathing.
And it's not routinely or tedious, like when she's harvesting her crops, or tending to her livestock.
It's not difficult, like lifting her hammer and bringing it down on the rock, hoping—praying—that there would be something valuable for her to ship.
It's simple.
It's amazing.
Being with him is new and exciting and fresh and something she never never never wants to give up.
And when she first met him, and he was cold and rude and grumpy, she was determined to make him smile.
And when the ghost of a smile played at his lips after she made a corny farm joke, she knew she was making progress.
And when he smirked down at her after she declared that her chicken was going going going to win the big contest, she felt her heart skip a few beats.
And when he burst out laughing after she clumsily fell in the mud on her farm, she knew she had actually fallen in love with the silver haired cowboy.
And when he's there, every Monday morning, bright and early, it takes everything in her not to run to Mirabelle's place in her pajamas.
And the way he looks at her, with his piercing amethyst eyes, in what other's may perceive as a glare, she can see in his deep deep deep eyes, the love and kindness, and she's knows it's his gift for her.
And, she'll cherish it.
And, when he holds her hand, his gloved hand gripping hers, she feels like she's floating.
And when he embraces her tightly, (yet not tightly enough) she smiles because he smells like the animals in her barn, the woods, and she can detect a faint trace of his cologne.
And when he kisses her, and his lips taste like porridge, she laughs because, hey, it doesn't taste that bad, it's actually kinda good.
And when she curls into his side at night, in her (their) bed, she sighs happily because his arm wraps around her waist and he murmurs sweet nothings that are reserved just. for. her.
And when she wakes up in the middle of the night because of a freaky dream about Regis being a vampire or her cow, Betsy, being abducted by UFOs, he's there, kissing her troubles away.
And when he leaves on Tuesday nights, she blinks back her silly tears because he'll be back.
He'll always be back.
And when she whispers I love you to him for the first time, he grunts, which would seem cold, if it weren't for the fact that he took her hand gently in his and leaned in to kiss her.
And when she holds a blue feather behind her back, and starts to ramble and stumble on her words, he chuckles (a rare occurrence) and snatches the blue feather out of her unsuspecting hands.
And she starts to protest, but is shocked into silence when he smiles at her—a real smile—and bends down on one knee.
And when she starts to cry, he wipes away her tears and kisses her tenderly, because it's love.
And, when they lay down underneath the stars, she turns to him and smiles.
Hi Vaughn, she whispers intertwining their fingers.
Hello Chelsea, he responds with a small smirk.
And she leans in and kisses him lightly.
And he smiles brightly, because she smells like sunshine (if that's even possible) and strawberries.
And her cobalt eyes are shining because she's so indescribably happy.
And he thinks one thing:
Being with her is easy.
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~S.S.