I'm back! Consider this short chapter the calm and fluffy before the storm. I think it's time Soul and Maka confront their feelings, don't you? So enjoy!

Chapter 3.

"The only thing you need to do for now is get some rest and take good care of yourself until you do know the answer."

— Elizabeth Gilbert

It'd only been a week since their time in the sewers when Soul decided to take a leap of faith, or a leap of sheer stupidity.

Truth was that all this hero business had taken its toll, and he needed a moment to stop and think. It was time to charge his batteries because they sure needed charging, but also time to start looking at the bigger picture. Something that'd been nagging him since the sewers. Hell, since before the sewers, back when he was accustomed to wandering hospital halls. After a lot of consideration, and hopeless frustration, he had finally reached a verdict.

He'd fallen in love with the blonde in hospital scrubs. She weaseled her way into his cold, lonely heart and refused to vacate, so now he was left to deal with the consequences.

"Soul, what is this?"

She wore a kelly green dress that made the green, green of her eyes pop. It stopped and drifted around her knees like a tent, and Soul believed her legs could go on forever from thereon, most likely smooth and creamy to the touch. He couldn't stop staring. His eyes flickered and crackled with static. She didn't think Maka and beautiful went well together. He, dressed in a collared shirt and jeans with no holes that 'Star promised he didn't dig out of a dumpster, was there to prove her wrong.

He only wished he didn't have this shithole of a city to work with because Maka deserved so much better. He also wished there was someone out there for her much better than him—some poser that at the very least didn't carry a heavy charge in his blood or a lot of guilt swirling in his head—but he'd suffice for now.

"Seriously, Soul. I'm climbing a fire escape for you in a dress. A dress you gave me. Actually, you threw it in my face without really saying much except, 'Put it on. It'll bring out your eyes.'"

Her attempt at mocking his voice was comical. To her he talked in mumbles and grunts, more guttural than actual speech, which almost made him laugh. Almost. He was too nervous. Nervous because he'd never tried to talk feelings before.

"And now I'm here and I don't know why," she said, only a few steps behind him. "You're not talking, but I'm still following, and that's scaring me, Soul."

He stopped with only one more flight to go before they'd hit his constructed rooftop paradise, where he'd spill his guts and wait for her to run. She had told him to wait back at the hospital, which already felt like ages ago, but what was the point of waiting? They watched people dying, suffering, and dead all in a matter of minutes. He'd seen her take a death fall down in the sewers after the bomber blast, and that image still haunted him. His fall down there by the generator haunted her, too; she'd told him so when she thought he was still unconscious. Also told him about the time he jumped off the hospital roof; how he begged her to help him before he fell, again, into nothingness. Brought up the awkward kiss on the hospital roof, too. How she'd wanted to sap the pain right out of him then, but regretted that she couldn't. So what was the point of waiting anymore, really?

"Thought you could use some fresh air," he said, hoping his voice didn't crack from nerves. "And the dress really does bring out your eyes."

He heard her scoff from behind, and he imagined a dusting of red on her cheeks. He didn't need to look back to know he was right. Easy to read and so damn expressive, he thought. But he didn't have the power to predict how his confession would be received. Too many variables, worst-case scenarios, and that one perfect, seemingly out of reach happily ever after he was dying to get his grubby hands on. Did he deserve it? No. But he wanted it bad.

"I don't think I've ever seen you without a jacket before besides a hospital gown," she said, suddenly, and her words put him at ease with how routine they sounded, like another day back at the hospital when they'd buddy up or have their late night talks. It fed his courage and helped him take those last few steps.

"There's a first time for everything," he replied, cool and collected. Though his cool promptly crumbled to his feet in a pile of ash once she cleared the last few steps too, feasting her eyes on his makeshift paradise for the evening.

A string of old Christmas lights flickered from overhead, casting over scattered placements of candlelight and an old radio playing smooth jazz from its crackly speakers. He had a couple lawn chairs pulled up to the nicest table he and 'Star could find—begrudgingly, he hated to admit that those were pulled from a dumpster—with a bottle of wine and a glazed ham taking center stage.

The ham was a mystery him. BlackStar had just shoved it in his arms that morning and said, "Fry her up good, Thor. Gotta impress your lady friend, right? Can't do that without your mighty meat hammer." Where he got the ham, Soul didn't know, but he was grateful. If only because there was no way he'd picked up such a nice hunk of meat from another dumpster.

The wine was a gift from his brother, back before all this shit started, as a congrats on the new job, new city, new life. If only his brother had a clue about this quarantined hellhole his little brother was living in and about the spark in his blood, Soul thought. Boy, would he get a mouthful from him about it. Maybe a pained stare and a suffocating hug, too. Only his brother knew how to tear down his walls and peel back all his layers with a look. He was good at that.

"Did you set all this up?"

Oh, right. Her too. She'd actually give his brother a run for his money with her looks.

"BlackStar helped," he mumbled pitifully. She didn't offer a rebuttal.

Instead, Soul watched her wander around, picking and prodding at things. She looked like a toddler had been set loose in a toy store, all bright eyed and itching to touch everything. Her hand glided over the top of one of the lawn chairs—painfully slow for his taste. The ham and wine, ignored. Declared uninteresting in her investigation of his rooftop. Her eyes followed the string of lights, flickering their greens and reds. Not as green as her eyes, though. Her hand brushed over a few candles. He flinched. Luckily, she didn't burn easily. Then she stopped at the radio with the spotty speakers, lips pursed.

"You like jazz?" she said.

He nodded. "S'got good rhythm. Soothes the soul." He grinned when she rolled her eyes at his try at a pun. "It's real music, too, with respected history. Better than that crap they put out these days."

"Hey, are you hating on pop and techno?"

"Mercy," he teased. "Please tell me you're not a fan."

Her cheeks swelled. "I'd be lying, then."

He groaned. "I would fall for a girl with bad taste in music."

He realized too late what he said, and her face only punctuated that point further. She looked wide eyed, and there was that crop dusting of red on her cheeks that made him weak in the knees. He gaped at her. All his nerves and all his anxieties fell to his feet in a pool of insecurities. He spoke in gibberish to try to cover things up, to try and explain himself and pick up the pieces of his bruised ego because she's all quiet and just staring at him, damn it.

"I don't think I have bad taste," she mumbled.

He blinked. Registering, registering, but no dice. "Huh?"

She walked up to him and took his hand, leading him to the table. "I don't have bad taste. Err, maybe in music, but you…" She paused, unsure of herself, but pressed on like the brave woman he knew she was. "You never left a bad taste in my mouth."

He plopped down in one of the lawn chairs, looking shell-shocked. The pool of insecurities at his feet dried up. Was this Maka's way of returning his feelings? His brain stayed stuck on that question, so caught up in it that he didn't even notice when a glass of wine was placed in front of him.

"Here. Looks like you need a drink."

He then focused on the glass as some drops of wine breached the top and hit the table. Her hand was shaking.

"Maka?"

It wasn't a peck, wasn't an attempt to sap the pain out of him, and it wasn't even a moment of passion; no, kissing Maka Albarn was a slow, awkward burn that called for bumping noses, clanging teeth, and uncoordinated tongue poking.

He wouldn't have it any other way, honestly.

Just as she started the kiss, she ended it, red-faced and gasping for air. Her bangs were ruffled and tinged in sweat just from that kiss. Her eyes tried to focus away from him, he noticed, but kept coming back to his lips. Still riding the high of finally checking off a real first kiss off his checklist, Soul just laughed.

"You forgot to breathe, idiot. Some nurse you are."

Her face was a beautiful shade of red that he wanted to engrave into his memory. "S-Shut up, Soul," she squeaked.

She squirmed in her own seat, curling up into herself, probably thinking about everything she thought went wrong during the kiss that he thought was amazing. Knowing her perfectionist tendencies, she probably wanted things to go smoothly, to feel just right. And who was he to deny her that?

"Again? Practice makes perfect, y'know."

She nodded slowly, and he kissed her this time. Their noses didn't bump, but she kept her tongue under lock and key. She breathed through her nose, too.

"Again."

She was more adventurous this time. Her tongue came out to play, mostly poking and prodding at his teeth. It made him nervous, but he humored her. He'd do anything for her.

"Again."

Things were becoming less gentle as she purposely scraped her lip against his teeth. Not only that, but the sound she made afterwards made things less PG and leaned more toward R. Hands became a factor outside the kiss, and boy did Maka's like to wander.

"Again."

She'd be the death of him. Between kiss three and four, apparently, he'd mysteriously lost his shirt.

"Again."

Between four and five, she was bare skinned to match. She was like porcelain, all shiny and smooth to the touch. She shuddered under his touch and he hers, his eyes crackling from all the excitement. It took a lot of willpower to keep his electricity under wraps because it was itching to spark up, to release all his feelings the only way it could. He almost let it. But he'd be damned if he hurt Maka. So discipline won this round.

…

"Again."

Between who fucking knows because he lost count, Soul realized he owed BlackStar a new couch. But more importantly, as he stared at the half asleep blonde cooing again in his arms, he realized what it was like to love and be loved back. He realized how precious love was, and how far he'd be willing to go to protect it. He couldn't lose this, couldn't lose her.

"Mmm, Soul?"

His eyes softened. "Still here. Get some sleep, Maka. You've been working long hours. Time for you to rest up."

She yawned. "Mmm, fine. You sleep too."

"Deal."

"Love you."

It came out as a groggy mumble, but it still made his heart skip a beat. It was her first time saying the L word, though she had done more than enough to convince him that was how she felt.

"Love you, too."

Maka smiled and fell asleep not too long afterwards, and he quickly followed her as he always would.

"Enjoy the moment while it lasts, Soul. I'm sorry that it must come to this, but I have no other choice. It's time that you learned your true reality the hard way."

Review to fuel my muse and share your thoughts so far. Many thanks.