When words aren't enough
"Do you think of me?" she asks casually even though the question isn't casual in the slightest. She waits as he tugs off his boots and loosens all the fasteners of his clothing. She hates asking. She doesn't want to wear him out more than he already is but still.
Still.
"You're all I think about," he replies softly. His undershirt is dirty and clings to his back. Summer is his least favorite. He says he doesn't keep as well anymore. It's delivered as a joke but she knows he means it.
"There's – there's not anyone else?" Her voice is hesitant. Unsure. She doesn't know why she asks. There would never be anyone else. He wouldn't consider it. Not the effort. Not the emotional toll. She thinks maybe if she died he would stop taking care of himself and follow her to the grave. This is not a consolation. It is not something she takes as a compliment.
Years she waited, and it never crossed her mind to question his feelings for her. Not even when she wouldn't see him for months on end. Now? She wonders. Constantly.
"There has never been nor will there ever be anyone else." Her question hasn't fazed him. He smiles over his shoulder and she smiles too, but she doesn't feel it. Not where she needs to. She drops her gaze to the blanket under her. He would give her anything she asked for but she doesn't know what to ask.
His sigh draws her attention and he leaves her alone on the bed for a bath. Her tears feel foolish. She doesn't want to cry over something so ridiculous.
She gathers his clothes and makes a load of them. Soap is measured and added to the water. A few of her tears fall into the wash, as well. When she turns around, he is there. Gods, he is beautiful. It hurts to look at him.
He crosses the laundry room, still wrapped in a clean towel, and takes her hand. His lips press into her palm and he captures her with an upward glance.
He doesn't speak but takes her wrists in his hands. His palms move up her arms and over her shoulders until his fingertips slide into her hair. He kisses her softly at first but his eyes promise more. Her fingers dance along the freshly washed skin of his arms and gasps when he suddenly drops his hands to her waist and lifts her to the top of the washing machine.
She reaches for the fold of his towel but his hand stops her. He shakes his head and grins as he kneels down to kiss her thighs where her nightgown has ridden up. One foot is balanced on the surface of the washer and the other leg is draped over his shoulder. When his mouth finds her, she falls back against the cabinets.
He's been gone for a month and she hasn't bothered. Now her toes curl and her back arches without her effort. His fingers move inside of her – first one, two, then a third. He doesn't waste time. He never does.
Her breaths come fast and, embarrassingly, she comes the second he applies a steady pressure of rhythm and swirl. She can't quite bring herself back to a sitting position before he's pulling her against his chest. Her eyes are mostly closed and she licks the taste of herself from his lips.
Next, her back falls to the bed and his towel is gone. She's lost her senses. His fingers lace through hers and she wraps her legs around his waist to pull him in. This time he is slower. He kisses her shoulders, her neck, her cheeks, her lips. Her belly and thighs quiver.
He doesn't tell her that he loves her or that he thinks of her or that he's missed her. She knows all of that. He's said it before. Instead, he kisses her and never stops touching.