Chapter 110: Morning Quiet

Lisa's POV

Slowly waking, I am cocooned in warmth that isn’t just coming from the blankets.

For a moment, I’m confused – between sleep and awake, at that third state where dreams are still latched on to consciousness – then I get it: the heavy weight of an arm around my waist, the predictable inhale-exhale pattern of breath on my shoulder, the warmth of Leo’s body laying next to me. Its breath is warm as it skims over my skin, smooth and consistent.

We’re tangled up.

Tangled up, and then hopelessly tangled.

My leg is thrown over his, and his knee is between mine, and our bodies mold together as if they're long-lost lovers who just now met, like pieces of puzzle that were cut from the same board.

The sheets are so twisted that they’re impossible to describe; they’re pulled and kicked and wrapped around us in ways no one would think of replicating on purpose. And on the floor somewhere, I can see articles of clothing—mine and his—that have been left behind in the quiet intensity of last night, a trail of fabric strewn from the door to the bed like crumbs marking the way.

It makes my chest tighten, feeling surprisingly emotional. I turn my head slightly, cautiously, and there he is.

Asleep.

Wide open in a way that feels almost hallowed.

His face is relaxed in a way I rarely observe in the daylight, during which his features are mostly focused or restrained.

The angles of his jaw soften in sleep, his brows smooth and relaxed, his lips slightly parted as he breathes evenly, peacefully. His hair is ruffled, draping over his forehead in a manner that makes the young man appear a bit younger, almost boyish, susceptible in a way he would never allow himself to be in the daylight.

Handsome is too mild a word for him.

Beautiful seems nearer to the mark.

I stare at him shamelessly, without reserve, until I've committed every detail to memory as if I'm an artist capturing her subject.

One hand rests loosely on my back, fingers curled gently as if they'd soon found me and decided to stay, grasping me even when I'm unconscious.

I don't move.

I'm hardly breathing.

I'm scared that if I do, this moment will break, will shatter like something too delicate to make it out in the waking world. My mind is wandering off, spooling thoughts I didn't even know were waiting to share their secrets with me from just under the surface.

I reflect on how far we've come — from the days when we maintained a polite distance, when we were cautious, fearful of drawing too close to one another, to now — to these quiet conversations, these peaceful glances, to this — this seamless closeness.

All I can think about is how he stared at me last night, as if he’d never seen me before, and I was something precious, like he’d been afraid to touch and now was afraid to lose. As though I were somehow important in a way that terrified and exhilarated him equally.

I think about how safe I feel here.

Not that I mind, physically anyway, being wrapped in his arms, in his scent, in his warmth—but emotionally. But emotionally. Spiritually, even When I say that I am allowed, for the first time in years, to breathe out fully without the sky falling in on me in the space I take in this life.

I'm not in a hurry this morning. We don’t need to figure out what’s next, or to steel ourselves for what’s next. No armor to put on, no mask to fix. Just a serene fullness in my chest that makes breathing sound like a privilege rather than a task, and makes being around be like more than simply sufficient.

His arm tightens a little in sleep as he pulls me closer with that unconscious certainty, even in dreaming he knows where I belong. My breath catches, my heart is stuttering, but he doesn't wake. He just exhales softly, his face moving my hair, nose rubbing against the back of my head in a motion so gentle it makes me want to choke up.

I smile unconsciously, as the light slowly spreads across my face like the rising sun.

How did I ever think that man was distant? Closed off? What blindness kept me from seeing that under all that control and restraint, beneath the walls he kept around himself, was someone who could do that? That kind of devotion? The one who cradles me like I am the best thing in the world to him? And I thought he was so cold? I thought he was distant? Anyway, our purchase is non-refundable, which means your money is gone.

He doesn’t want to be far away, he craves to be right there, he needs to have me within his reach, his sight…that is what this is all about.

The reality sinks in for me like some new dawning: he always was. I just simply wasn’t prepared to see it. Wasn’t ready to believe I earned it.

Carefully, I make just enough of a move to slide my arm out from under him without waking him.

That thought alone almost undoes me.

I rise from a lying position slowly hesitantly with cold air blowing against my bare shoulders making me slightly shiver after surrounded by by warmth what we had made together.

In the early morning light shines through the window draped In this light, everything seems a bit tamer, a tad more tender, like Mornings itself is still getting itself up.

I look at him again—curled slightly toward the space I had just left, as though he were reaching for me, even in his dreams. His hand lies palm-up on the mattress where I'd been, fingers curved as if he's waiting. The sheet has slumped down to his hips, disclosing the full extent of his back, the arc of his shoulder, skin that is marked with a faint trace of my nails from the previous night.

My heart swells up and feels too big for my ribs.

Silently, I ease myself out of bed, pulling the sheet around me as I rise, the floor cold beneath my bare soles. I place my feet flat on the floor, curl my toes on the hardwood, and tap at a mess of garments–his shirt, my dress, his pants, my underwear, strewn about like the aftermath of some joyous and unplanned escapade. Signs of haste, passion, and how we barely made it to the bed when—

That thought stops me, cheeks heating.

I pick up his shirt from where it lies crumpled near the bottom of the bed.

Instinct and impulse tell me to get it over my head now. The fabric had warmed to his body, still radiant with heat like a hug, holding his scent—clean, soft and masculine.

The collar is soft against my skin, it is worn out, a familiar warmth that makes me feel as if I'm enveloped in him.

It’s like wearing comfort.

It feels like home were we living.

I take one last look at the bed I can’t help it. He didn’t shift that much, but now his face was turned somewhat toward the window, light was coming through, highlighting his features, as if he were in a painting. He looks peaceful. Content. Settled in a way I would never catch him in during the day.

Happy.

The understanding settles warmly and firmly in my chest.

He's happy. With me. With us. With whatever this thing is that we’re creating. And so am I.

I’ll make coffee for him.

The image makes me smile—something so ordinary, yet for some reason, it feels more intimate than I thought it would.

And yet as I near the door, I hesitate for some reason. A pull. An unseen connection…I turn back.

Still asleep, his arm is stretched across the space where I had been, his hand lies on the pillow as if he's grasping for a memory.

Perfect in its elegance.

I rest lightly on the door frame and watch him, my chest so full it doesn’t long for more, it doesn’t reach past what is. It's not urgent. No fear.

There’s nothing more to know, nothing else to learn about how to stay alive or when the other shoe is going to drop. Just gratitude, plain and unadorned.

For him…for us.

For this still, delicate morning that is just for us, that lives outside of time and what we expect and all the rest of it.

I smile. And I linger a precious extra moment there, cradling the vision of him sleeping…content, authentic, and achingly human, then I turn around toward the hall…already taking his masculine scent along with me.