Graduation creeps up on them, slipping under their feet unnoticed. He kisses her and she smiles deeply at him, this is the marker she had given them for success--and they crossed it mostly unhindered.
He isn't quite so easily placated and as he brushes a hand down her face he tells her that it's time for a real answer, or for her to give him back the ring. The latent shock that passes over her features is wiped away by his fingers and she frowns, letting him know that it's not polite to ask for gifts back. He shrugs and she says she needs just a little more time. It's almost a 'yes' and because of that he lets the issue slide, holding her close in the crowd until she is almost breathing into his mouth, her eyes open.
There are caps and robes all around them, a sea of green. It clashes with her eyes and he wishes she was crowded around him instead.
*
It's late and warm when she bites her lip and tells him they should celebrate. They're adults now, they're graduates now. Her fingers run a soft pattern on his thighs and her breath is hot and tempting on his neck but he holds out anyhow. It infuriates her and she moves one hand a little higher, tracing the seam of his jeans all the way to the join where it makes him shiver. His teeth grit, her hand clenches and her lips are wet up his throat--taunting him with the pressure of a slick tongue. He sucks in a sharp breath, protesting through his groans. He wants answers. She pushes him a little further, snakes a hand along his waistband. Soon her fingers are inside and his eyes roll back. She never loses this game.
His efforts are valiant, but she has the upper hand as one hand lowers.
*
The ring is nothing like plain. Simple, perhaps, but in some part of her that's all she's ever been looking for. Something simple with a heartfelt meaning. He waves it in front of her like candy, the sunlight sparkling over it like a lit match. A solitaire diamond set on a gold band. She waves her left hand back, showing him the ring she already has. He claims it doesn't count. That it didn't mean the same. She plucks it from the small, blue case and looks inside, searching for an inscription. He removes it from her hands with a slight shrug and asks how he could possibly put them into words. She rolls her eyes and he closes the box with a click that rings of finality.
The silence that runs past them is almost awkward, he hates that she's not ready, that she just enjoyed pretending. He has been abandoned by a lot of people and though he can't resent her for it, he wants to. She bites her lip, averting her gaze sympathetically, apologetically--she doesn't want to hurt him, she just doesn't want to get hurt herself. When she swallows tightly he packs the box inside his jacket and runs fingertips through her hair--short again--following them with his lips.
It would be better, he thinks, but it wouldn't be worth losing any part of her now.
*
Her head tilts forward, over her chin and his breath catches. Her voice is barely whispered as he fingers the seam of the box in his pocket. He still can't see her face and he's sure he must have misheard. When he asks her to repeat it, she raises her head to show her irritation through a bright smile. Despite herself she breathes out her answer again, still in the positive. He doesn't take the ring out before he kisses her, long and thorough as she leans back in his arms to accommodate him--grasping at his shirt in happy desperation. Even when their mouths part he refuses to let her go, arms wrapping firmly around her waist to anchor them together. She laughs into his chest and asks if she can have her ring yet. When he shakes his head in response a small hand slips down his front, tracing down his stomach like a tease as she heads for the pocket in his pants. Fingers securing around her prize with no small amount of wiggling to make him mad.
She can feel his reaction through the fabric separating them and pulling her hand from the pocket she slips her ring on the right finger and slides her left hand down inside his pants. Her fingers curl around him, pressing the cool metal--not yet warmed from her hand--firmly against his heated, hardened flesh as he moans.
*
He has red sheets and she thinks it's the tackiest thing she's ever seen, but they feel good when she's flat out on her back with him above her. His fingers teasing as hers open and close convulsively, pleading for some help with their grasping motions. The silk is sticky on the backs of her thighs and the heavy pressure of not being able to breathe is pressing down against her chest, following his fingertips. She thinks this is the good kind of asphyxiation.
His skin sweats against hers, melting out all his affection on her. She gasps, hard, body ricocheting up from the mattress, his mattress, and his fingers are nowhere to be seen. He licks down her throat and she's not sure she'll ever be able to peel herself off the bed again.
*
She still feels like she should be studying. He finds her packing up her dorm room, a pen chewed to fit her teeth hanging lamely from one side of her mouth. He removes the pen, replacing it with his lips as he smiles a greeting into her mouth. His fingers skate down the outside edge of her arm, reassuring her that things will be okay once she leaves her college box. She just wants to curl up inside him and stay here where it's warm and safe and she knows how to write a thesis.
He bought a small two-bedroom apartment although they wouldn't need the room. They live mostly on top of each other, crowding around like they're stuck in some way painful. Her eyes sting when he loads the last box of her belongings into the van that will drive them all twenty minutes down the road. She doesn't want to leave.
His arm cradles her, pulling her close to hide against his body and she presses her face into his shoulder for a moment, breathing in the clean dry smell of his soap and the detergent he uses that's the same as hers.
*
She's twenty-two, she can live with her boyfriend (turned insistent fiancé) but she's not planning her wedding yet. Things go sour all too soon she knows this and they've been living year to year or month to month depending. She doesn't like to think about blocking them out into 'forever'. It's a little too much to comprehend. Sleeping next to the boyfriend who used to spend almost every night in her uncomfortable single bed is normal. It's friendly and comforting and acceptable and welcome. She likes the feel of his hands on her waist while she's dozing. The way his fingers sneak up to stroke her breasts while her back is pressed to his chest and his chin is tilted by her shoulder.
She likes it she just doesn't want to take it for granted. Everything ends up falling in on her eventually. He knows that's what she's thinking, knows that her tough cookie-crumble outside is just to hide the melting fear she's made of.
*
Her face presses into his neck softly, coyly. She likes to wake up with her eyelashes against him. The light flutter of breath rouses him as she falls back into sleep.
He drinks his coffee too dark and with too much sugar, it's enough to make her grimace. He laughs that she should be the one who's down with bitter, but she's had enough of dark and dingy and just-not-right. She likes to keep her emotional defaults different from her food choices. He still laughs at her, but he drowns her drink in milk when he wakes first in the morning. A grubby yawn escapes her mouth, complete with swollen lips and a warm smile, when he brings it to her and she thinks she could get used to this. Get used to this belonging. To, finally, this normal.