The morning after they had first slept together she had expected an awkwardness, it would have been only natural, to have found themselves on opposite sides of the breakfast table, avoiding each others eyes. But when the sun had poured in through her window, spreading across her bed in burning slices he had pulled her back down when she started to rise, holding her close in their sleep warm nest of blankets and pillows, holding her gently as she rested her cheek on his chest, letting her know that she didn't need to feel embarrassed, that he didn't judge her for needing an escape from the dark.
She had smiled down at him, wrapping herself in one of the sheets as she gathered up her clothes, trying her hardest not to stare at him, all pale skin and golden hair, looking achingly warm and sleepy. She'd wanted to climb back into the bed, to hold him down as she kissed him, but she'd felt that if she had done that she would have given away too much, that maybe the night had meant more than just physical release.
It should have ended there, that morning. But once those sort of lines had been crossed it was so very hard to go back, especially when she realised he would deny her nothing.
In truth she rarely let herself give in. but she still couldn't give up the feel of him so close to her at night. It was only when she woke in the middle of the night, a soft gasp trailing from her lips as the crashing darkness of her nightmares faded from her mind, leaving the lingering wake of the hollow bleak horror chilling her very soul that she would let herself trail her hand along his side, sliding into the heat between his skin and his shirt, some subconscious signal that would invariably wake him.
He never asked if she were sure, if it was really what she wanted, he trusted her enough now to know what she wanted. And she was glad he didn't speak, didn't question her, because it made the way he kissed her so much more meaningful, as though he sought the answers with the long and demanding press of his lips on hers, in the way she sighed as his hands travelled to all the places he'd learnt so well, the way they moved so well together in the dark.
There were some days when she truly appreciated the silence between them, the fact that he never asked questions, preferring instead to let her divulge whatever stories she wished to share. Because she didn't think she could face telling him certain things. Like how she blushed when she went to the store and Amy asked about him, calling him 'Dusty' and winking at her with a lavicious smile.
Or that every time he drove her to the edge she pulled him down to kiss her, hard and desperate as she forced herself not to say those three words that would damn her, would break her heart when he softly told her that he didn't feel the same.
And when she had driven halfway towards the state line just so she wouldn't have to go the pharmacy in town. The way she had spent the longest three minutes of her life staring at her reflection in the bathroom of a small diner just off the highway, fingers rattling on the cheap wooden basin surround as she tried not to look at the white stick that balanced on the edge of the sink.
She hadn't known whether to laugh or cry when it came out negative, some tiny spark of hope thoroughly crushed with the notion that she wouldn't have a clue how he'd take it. So she had cut her losses and taken the necessary means to make sure it wouldn't happen again, chastising herself for being so stupid in the first place, and if he ever asked her what it was she took every morning, she would just tell him it was a vitamin tablet, because she also wasn't sure how he'd react to knowing that she was purposely against it.
It seemed these days that they lived two separate lives, the days spent quietly reading and writing, sometimes going for a drive for a change of scenery, and the long dark nights spent in the confines of a private world, one where words did not exist and comfort took form in the warm brush of fingertips over sensitised skin, soft kisses that grew more forceful, the air hot and heavy around them. Some nights were darker than others, her hands usually pulling him to cover her, sighing softly against his lips as he took her with a gentle passion, but then there were times when she would wake with the simmering violence of hopelessness in her veins, and she would find herself astride him, his hands hot on her thighs as she pinned him to the bed, dragging her teeth against his neck so she could hear his ragged breaths, pressing down against him and smiling at the response of his body. It was those nights that left her sore, a secret smile on her lips as she moved around the next day, catching site of faint marks left on her skin, the impression of teeth on her shoulder from where he had turned her, his chest pressed against her back, hands laced with hers, his breath hot on the back of her neck as she had cried out his name, pressing her face into the sheets as he'd driven into her hard, giving her exactly what she had asked for when she had woken him with a feral darkness in her eyes.
Most days he was gone when she woke up and it bothered her more than she would let on, but it was the definition in their relationship, separating the light and the dark. But it still stung, building up a wall between them that she wanted to tear down, but to approach him in the day, with no excuse other than lust and desire and that other heart thumping emotion that made her feel so desperately and achingly bittersweet would only result in her being gently held at bay. It was one thing in the black and heavy nights, when dreams merged with reality and he could whisper things that made no sense to her, but in the day, it would be more real somehow. So she continued to deny herself, to take whatever he could offer and ask for no more, not even daring to hope.
She noticed that people had stopped staring, maybe the novelty had worn off, or more likely they had run out of new gossip, either way Meg felt a sense of relief settle in her, no longer anxious of simply wandering around the town. She noticed too that sometimes she would see faces in the gaps of the hedge that surrounded the house, the local children gathering round waiting for Dustfinger to start spinning his fire into the night, their faces shining pale in amongst the leaves. When she first mentioned it to him he seemed put off, scowling darkly until she leaned against him briefly and asked him for her favourite trick, just one more time. And after that it wasn't long until the kids became less fearful, eventually leaning on the fence at the bottom of the garden and staring open mouthed as he formed shapes and told stories with the golden curls of flames. They would grumbles and whine when he packed up, calling over and asking him how he made the fire, and Dustfinger would smile gently and reply, "Magic."
He soon gained himself a reputation, that of a quiet and kind man quite willing to silence the tears of a crying child by producing the gentle rosy glow of fire between his fingers as if from thin air. The people of the town always waved to him now or mentioned to Meg that they had seen him out walking. She always felt a mixed sense of pride when anyone asked about him, their slow but thorough acceptance of him making her finding this small town more of a home than anywhere she had lived before. She found herself smiling more often, her thoughts turning less and less to the still painful memories of her parents.
She lived for the night now, for when it was alright for her to touch him, to go to him in the dark and let herself go, the moon low in the sky and throwing their world into shadow and light, and she could pretend that the silent pattern of his lips on her skin were the quiet attestations of his love for her.
So very different to the day.
Much better than the day.