He's mesmerized by the colors, unable to stop himself from touching again and again. She is fire and sunset, the slant of late afternoon light glancing just so off of chestnut curls. And the light forms a halo as his fingers tangle again and again.
"Reading, Rumple," she murmurs, the words curt though her tone is indulgent.
"Read on, then," he chuckles, not surprised in the least when her head doesn't move an inch from its cushion against his thigh. His good foot is braced on the floor, guiding the swing into a gentle sway, though careful not to go far enough to jostle her off of it.
The leaves are rustling as they fall, the piles growing all around. He'll hire Henry this Saturday to rake them up. After all, it's the sort of agreement made between grandfathers and grandchildren. The fifty he'll slip the boy will only serve to make the chore that much more worthwhile. Although he knows the boy would do it for free simply to please Belle.
It should bother him that Henry took to Belle like a duck to water, when his own relationship with his grandson was often times strained. But it doesn't. Belle has him wrapped around her graceful little pinkie, whether she ever realizes it or not. Why should his grandson be any different?
Another gust of wind, and he twitches the quilt draped around Belle, tucking it closer around her. There's a half murmur of something that might be thanks, but she's too lost in her book to make it intelligible, and he's too lost in her and this moment to care.