Chapter 111: Golden Hours

Lisa's POV

I’m humming.

Actually humming—something soft and tuneless that I don’t even recognize—while I pace around the kitchen. The coffee pot burbles merrily next to me, and the air is soon filled with that rich, dark aroma that holds the promise of alertness and heat.

Streams of sunlight shine in through the windows, casting a honeylight and golden light on everything, even making me feel like making toast is an activity to be relished. I’m still in Leo’s shirt, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows for work and the fabric soft and too big to be really called a shirt.

I’ve got a frizzy mess of hair—I saw a bit of me in the window’s reflection and decided that would suffice. That’s the best part about not worrying about how I look—that’s the best part about just being in this moment, exactly as I am. The toaster pops, severely startling me and I laugh at myself as I go retrieve the bread.

Golden braids of butter seep into crispy edges and pockets. I place the toast on a plate and go for the butter, already picturing Leo’s morning face when it sees coffee and food on stand-by. I think he’s still sleeping.

The vision makes me grin recalling how tranquil he appeared, how youthful and unguarded. Yeah, a little of me wanted to remain there, just stare at him, but the rest of me - the part that wanted to do something for him, no matter how small or simple as just saying good morning - one that was more of me than the other, almost - won out.

As I butter the toast, watching the butter melt on the warm bread, I hear it.

Footsteps.

Soft, uneven, like somebody who’s still half asleep and trying to find their footing.

My heart does a little flip.

I turn my gaze toward the door as he walks in, and suddenly I’m left breathless in a way that’s both foreign and familiar.

Leo.

His hair is completely tousled, spiking out in all manners that one could imagine, and there’s a fold on his cheek that makes him look absolutely adorable.

With one hand he is rubbing his eyes, blinking slowly as if to get oriented to the world.

Then he sees me.

His face changes—puzzlement melting into recognition, recognition brightening into something that resembles happiness. His lips fold into a slow, drowsy smile that absolutely ruins my poise. good," he says, his voice hoarse and gravelly from sleep, richer than usual in a way which makes me shiver pleasantly.

I say “Morning,” trying to sound normal and probably failing. "I was just—"

I don’t get to finish.

Yet, now he crosses the kitchen in three long strides and from behind, his arms suddenly are around me, warm and solid and sure.

“You weren’t there,” he whispers in the ear of my neck, and his voice is almost vulnerable, as though waking up alone was more upsetting for him then what he’s willing to say.

"I'm right here," I say softly and lean back against him by instinct.

“Good.” Just a little bit tighter, his arms come back round, cross over my stomach and hold me tight against him. Then he tilts his head and kisses my temple – slow, lingering, as if he is savoring the very simple joy of being near.

I close my eyes for a moment anywhere the feeling sinks in.

“I was making you pancakes,” I say, but at least two of my words were too soft to hear.

“I can see that.” He sounds amused now, his voice is now warm. “You’re wearing my shirt.

“I am,” I confess, feeling my cheeks heat. “Is that okay?”

"It's more than okay. You look…" He pauses, his breath warm against my neck. “You look like you belong here.”

My heart stutters.

Before I can say anything, he presses another kiss to the nape of my neck, just under my ear, and I have to hold onto the counter to stop my knees from buckling.

“Leo,” I breathe, half sigh, half laugh.

"Hmm?" He's grinning into my skin, I can tell.

“You’re distracting me.”

"Am I?" His voice is far too innocent.

"Yes." I try to be stern but it's a breathy "And the toast is cold."

I can see how his eyes have softened, still heavy-lidded from sleep, but they are fully locked on me. There's a tenderness there that makes my throat tight.

“Good morning,” I say again, this time properly.

"Best morning," he corrects, before leaning down to kiss me.

It's soft. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that tastes like lazy Sunday mornings and hints that you’ll have more kisses like that all day long. When we finally pull apart, we’re both smiling like idiots.

"Coffee? " I offer.

“Coffee sounds perfect.” I’m only mildly reluctant to leave his hold to pour two mugs, fully conscious of his gaze the whole time. As I give him his cup, our fingers touch, and just being in contact with him feels electric in its simplicity.

He sips, his eyes closing in pleasure. “You brew a good cup of coffee.”

I paused considering what to say, “I had a good teacher,” I reply, thinking of all the mornings he's showed up for me without being asked.

He smiles wider.

We just stand there for a moment, sipping coffee and being in each other’s space. The kitchen seems smaller, somehow cozier, as if we had retreated into our own little world.

"What were you thinking about?" he suddenly asks. " Before I came down. You looked… happy."

I'm surprised he could tell, so I look at him. "I was," I confess. "I was thinking about how nice this feels. How easy."

"Easy," he says,"Yeah. It doesn’t seem to get hotter, does it?"

“Is that weird?” I ask. “Does it feel this natural already?”

He puts down his mug and reaches out for my unoccupied hand. Warm and slightly rough, his fingers interlaced with mine. "I don't think so. I think you just know when you’re right, I think you just know when you’re right."

He pauses, his thumb grazing along my knuckles. “It feels right Lisa and I truly believe in that.”

A burst of emotion chests me up. “Yeah,” I whisper. “Are you sure it’s not just me?”

He holds me close and presses a kiss on my forehead. “Come on. Let’s save that toast from oblivion.”

I chuckle, the sound carefree and uninhibited. “It's not that bad.”

"Yet,” he teases. We move together with ease, he reaches for the plates, I get the jam out of the refrigerator. He playfully nudges his hip to mine as we stand side by side, and I counter by taking a sip of his coffee. He feigns insulted breath, and I laugh so hard I almost drop the butter knife.

"Thief," he accuses.

"I bet you do. God, I love you" he just states so effortlessly, so normal like, it takes a couple of seconds before I realize what he just said.

I stop in my tracks, looking up at him with big eyes.

"Leo," I exhale.

Then he looks up, and the rawness in his eyes nearly shatters me.

"I do," he says quietly. "I know it might be too soon, or maybe it’s not, I don’t know. But I'm sick of concealing what I feel for fear of saying it out loud, and I feel it. I love you, Lisa."

The world seems to pause.

Then I’m on the move, the coffee cup going down, the distance between us shrinking. I reach up with both hands, which are cupped over his face, and then kiss him with all I have—emotion aching in my chest, all the words I’m not sure how to say yet, all the thankful and love and yes, love I’ve been holding on to without even realizing I was.

After I pull away, we’re a little out of breath.

I whisper against his lips, “I love you too.”

“I love you more,” he says with a sad smile.

He lifts me up suddenly, making me squeal in surprise and laughter, twirling us around until I’m so dizzy.

"Leo! Let me off!"

“Never!” He’s being dramatic again, but he does, and he gently places me on the edge of the counter so we are eye-to-eye.

Still laughing, I dangle my legs, his hands on my thighs holding me in place. He kneels between my knees and leans his forehead against mine.

“Repeat, that!” he whispers.

With every fiber of my being I can say it, “I love you,” he says.

"Again.”

“I’m in love with you."

Then he kisses me—deep, all-consuming and full of promise. Coffee cools, toast goes stale around us, but we don’t notice. That moment, this confession, this start — that’s everything.

When we finally separate, both flushed and gasping for air, he turns to me with the smile like I just handed him the world. "Best morning ever," he says.

I laugh and throw my arms around his neck. "It really is."

And in the warm glow of our kitchen, with the modest detritus of a life we're forging lying casually around, I have never been so certain about anything.

That’s happiness.

It is home….This is us.