mikleo breathes in the scent of rain-soaked cotton , the sharp quiet of it mingling with the warmth clinging to her skin like a second layer of mist. he doesn’t say anything right away — doesn’t need to , not when silence itself is a language between them , stitched into the hush of rooms they share , into every glance where words would only fumble. even so , the quiet is almost suffocating between them , but mikleo knows better than to force the stillness into something it’s not. the way edna carries herself , the way she hides behind her walls — he’s learned it all. he has learned the cadence of her moods the same way one might learn a coastline by heart : where the crags just sharp and silent , where the seafoam curls up timid and bright , where the tide pulls back only to rush forward again with reckless with familiar intent. there’s a kind of grace in how she refuses to meet his gaze , in how she battles her own affection like it’s a beast to be tamed. he’s always admired that about her — not the struggle , exactly , but the will behind it. how she tries , despite the ache. how edna stays , despite herself.
he doesn’t rush her , never has , never will. mikleo has always known that edna does not respond well to pressure. she doesn’t need more demands ( on her time , on her heart , on her thoughts ): so , instead of prying , instead of pushing for something that isn’t ready , mikleo stays. patient and still , like water does — curling himself into whatever shape her silence would allow. in all things , he is deliberate with her : never too much , never too loud. when she curls in on herself , when she folds inward ( in ways that he can’t always understand ): he does not press , just waits and waits. he gives her the space she needs to breathe , to sort through the labyrinth of thoughts and feelings she keeps hidden beneath her sharp edges. and even now , with the warmth of edna clinging onto his sheets and her body curling forward as though the weight of affection might buckle her spine , mikleo stays quiet. the moment asks for quiet and so he gives it. and it is still raining outside ( mikleo wondered just how long it would last? to keep their world all small and cozy like this ): it was the kind of rain that comes soft and silken , the kind that hushes the world down to a lull. mikleo can hear it drumming faintly against the glass , a low , steady rhythm that reminds him of her heartbeat when she finally lets herself rest near him. sometimes , she’s so still he worries — but then , there it is , that pulse beneath his touch , the small , constant thump-thump-thump that means she’s still here and still staying , for now.
his arms are around her still and that too feels like something rare. something that is never assumed , ( something that always carries with it a quiet awe ): a disbelief that she has allowed him this much. holding her like this , so close , so tangible ( feels like holding starlight in cupped hands and daring to believe it won’t burn ): the weight of her is real — heavy in a way that feels natural — like the gravity that holds everything in place — but the ghosts that cling to her , the ones that linger even when she’s silent and those , to mikleo , are just as real. all of the things that his girlfriend doesn’t speak of ( things he’s only seen glimpses of in the tight set of her jaw ): and in the way she watches his hands when he gestures too freely , when she thinks he's not paying attention ( but mikleo is always paying attention. he's always looking at her ): to him , it's like edna is waiting for something to shatter. but mikleo doesn’t shatter : he folds , he softens.
mikleo has always thought there was power in stillness. in choosing not to press forward when someone is already retreating. and so , when she flares up — when she throws words like daggers and scrunches her nose like she doesn’t mean half the things she says — he does not meet her with equal fire , he meets her with space , with understanding , and with the quiet sort of affection that does not ask to be acknowledged. what does it matter , if she never says it aloud? he knows. he knows it in the way she lingers even after the embarrassment simmers , in the way she curls herself forward but not away , in the way she stays ( he’s learned to read her in fragments ): like the way her hand had fumbled with the edge of her towel just now , not out of discomfort , but from nervous energy — fingers twitching with the weight of unsaid things. or how she tugs at his hair , not out of malice , but as a way to say i’m still here and i’m still letting you close. he reads her now , here , in this quiet cocoon they’ve made , where her laptop hums soft and normins giggle from the screen ( the air tastes like rain and static and the barely-there scent of her shampoo ): mikleo looks at her , feels the weight of her presence beside him , and wonders — just for a moment — if she understands the quiet ways in which she speaks to him , the ways she lets him in.
it’s the kind of quiet he cherishes most — the in-between , the stillness thickened with what isn’t said , the hush between two breaths where he can feel her there , in full ( like a ghost who never left , like a constellation so stubborn it etched itself into his skin ): he does not need edna to face him nor does not need her words. her presence is enough , a weight like warmth and like gravity ( something ancient curling into the hollow of his chest where only she fits ): so he holds her , arms anchored around her waist like a spell cast long before he ever knew how to speak her name. she leans back into him slow , deliberate ( like a snowfall returning to the earth ): like she is relearning how to trust that someone will catch her. edna's hair is still damp and her skin is soft with leftover heat ( from the shower or the warmth given from her skin , mikleo isn't quite sure ): even so he decides to ignore it and the feelings it gives him , falling into conversation once more and making sure to keep his body tilted just so to keep that part of him from touching her. but when her head tilts just so — neck offered like a secret , like the most delicious original sin of eden — he presses his mouth to the space beneath her ear , doesn’t kiss , just breathes out nice and slow ( just enough to make give the sensation without it being too much , too real ): but edna was so lovely , always was. always. always. always. her voice was quiet , but it came with teeth — the kind she never truly bites him with , only nudges , only prods like she’s testing the water for softness , before always throwing herself into him. he smiles from where he's blowing air behind her ear , all lips and hush and fondness.
❝ it's not wasting time if it makes you happy and you , as a pretty gemstone would make anyone pretty happy. ❞ a pause. ❝ unless you pull their hair. they might not be as nice as me. ❞ he grazes his nose against her shoulder , light , reverent. it's so easy to fall into the ebb and flow of quiet and words , then more quiet , and then more words. everything with edna feels natural ( as natural as earth having water , as natural as land kissing the sea ): honestly , he wants to say more cheesy lines he's stolen and tweaked from zaveid ( truly it would delight mikleo , it always does ): the ways in which he can pull expressions and sounds from edna that nobody else could. but he chooses not too , because she's asking him about his brother now and that was enough for him to keep the peace , just a tad. so , mikleo extends his arm out to his makeshift nightstand ( really a container full of unseasonal clothes ): and grabs his cellphone , keeping edna close with one hand and the other to use the touchscreen , before looking to see if his brother responded , he did. ❝ he's at alisha's waiting out the rain , says it's even worse on his side of town. ❞ he says , gaining a bit more mischief in his tone. ❝ translation , he won't be back for awhile. ❞ and maotelus it's hard for mikleo to even focus on reading the text from his brother ( or pay attention to anything else ): edna is so lovely like this — like a storm’s calm eye , like sunlight filtered through rain — still bristling , still grumpy , but here , still with him. her next complaint comes with a tug of his hair — sharp , sweet , familiar — and it causes a twitch from the part of him he's trying his best to ignore and his eyes flutter closed as he lets the sting anchor him. and it was here where mikleo truly knew that he would drown beneath his own waves , if it was edna that caused it.
he huffs a quiet laugh , his breath catching in the space between her neck and collarbone. ❝ i was watching , ❞ he murmurs , voice low and soft and truthful , ❝ just not the screen. ❞ because , again , mikleo was always watching edna. so what if he lied , just a tad. but how he could resist using just one more of zavied's lines , he couldn't , he wouldn't ( edna would scold him again , mikleo knows this ): and how she’ll call him something ridiculous , roll her eyes , maybe flick his forehead or tug at his ponytail again but she wouldn't move. she never does. and that , perhaps , is what undoes him most. he feels her fingers still in his hair but they've gotten far more gentle now and slow too ( like she’s trying to memorize him through touch alone ): his name doesn’t leave her mouth , but it lingers in her hands — in the warmth of her palm ( in the way she presses into him as if she’s afraid he’ll evaporate if she lets go ): and maotelus , she doesn’t know what she does to him and how she makes his heart ache with how much he wants her to see herself the way he does — not as a burden , not as difficult , and not as someone who needs to earn softness. but as she is , in this moment : all wrapped up in the loose fitting folds of his shirt ( half-damp and grumpy and radiant with life ): a girl who knows the language of minerals and hides behind pillows to keep her heart safe. before , mikleo always saw edna as his anchor , but mikleo knows better now. in reality , she is the ocean floor ( millions 'pon millions of pieces of gemstones and rocks and earth ): that he’s built his home on.
i. the earth’s quiet pulse.
ii. the part of the world that still holds mystery.
iii. the only place he ever feels steady.
and he notices how her fingers press into his arms now — not to push him away , not really , but to ground herself and to hide the way her breath still stutters beneath his all while mentioning her charger. but to him , her words come out a mumbles , like that makes her more in control , like that’s the piece she’s choosing to give. he lets her. but mikleo knows their both crumbling and because he realizes this ( but maybe , it's more him than her. it started with her in his shirt and her in his bed and her being his. his. his. his. ): his mind is definitely he lets her keep her defenses — the tug of his hair , the grumble in her voice , the refusal to meet his eyes — because that , too , is a kind of love ( the kind of firsts , the kind of innocence ): a love wrapped in thorn and flint , in soft sighs behind stubborn mouths.
❝ am i so lucky? ❞ he hums , low against her shoulder , letting the words settle between them like dusk. her silence is not refusal. it is not dismissal. it is simply the pause mikleo always notices that she takes before letting the softness in ( as if tenderness were a thing to be earned rather than held ): and what causes him to offhandedly wondering how he was lucky she had her changer ( as if she forget his phone and her laptop used the same type of power cord ): but not mikleo. he'd gotten this model of phone specifically because it was compatible with nearly all of edna's electronics. so he'd always have a spare charger or two or three in case she needed it ( and viseversa for him ): it was just another nod to know he paid attention , how he was always watching. he knows edna does it too. the way she always seems to have extra of his favorite snacks on test days or how his hair ties never seem to lose the elasticity. mikleo knows it's her that notices and replaces them. he knows it is she that watches him as much as he does her and to mikleo , that could make even the most darkest of black holes become filled with divine light. ❝ think i’m lucky just being here with you. ❞ it’s corny , he knows — and she’ll probably jab his ribs for it — but he means it with every inch of himself. mikleo means it like truth , like prayer ( like a wish whispered beneath the veil of moonlight ): and he doesn’t let go just yet. not when the rain storm outside still growls through the windows , not when her body still feels so tender in his arms ( like she’s finally stopped bracing for the worst ): her heart is beating against him — a rhythm he knows by now : all soft and stubborn and strong. mikleo will let go when she’s ready. but for now , he holds her like a promise — like a future and like he has all the time in the world.
he can feel the sigh she hides behind her throat , the faint shiver of her lashes when she leans forward just enough to hide her face ( just enough that she doesn’t have to admit how warm her cheeks have gone ): but she does want him to let her go and that makes him a bit sad. until , it does not. until her words give him a lovely idea. from the way her voice is brittle with a bit tiredness , not sharp ( just echo of a girl who’s been carrying her own weight too long ): and at first mikleo says nothing , he doesn’t need to. until he does. ❝ you're right , i should brush your hair. ❞ his voice soft , almost lost in the gentle hum of the world around them. the words slip out before he can stop them , but they feel right , grounded in the familiar cadence of their routine. in the gentle pull of their shared moments. and it's how he finds himself leaning forward , reaching with a quiet sort of reverence toward the edge of her bag ( his arm was aching from the over extension but he did not want edna to leave his lap ): his fingers grazing past various familiar items , sifting through them with a practiced ease until he feels the smooth wood of the hairbrush. drawing out the hairbrush it’s the same one she’s had for ages and always carries , the one with the worn bristles and chipped handle ( that's always seemsd to know the shape of her fingers ): and that tiny golden charm she tied to it so long ago ( another one , of many , gifts of her brother kept close and always constant in her life ): to mikleo , it feels like an extension of her , like something that’s always been there , waiting for the right moment to be used.
and the idea sits between them like an offering and mikleo doesn’t push it. he never demands more than she’s willing to give. he simply waits ( they both knew so much about waiting and waiting and waiting ): leaning back against the pillow , his presence a quiet promise that , no matter how distant or withdrawn she might become , he will be here. he takes in how his girlfriend is quiet at first , her back to him as she contemplates the suggestion. mikleo watches the way she stills , the way her fingers twitch ever so slightly as though they are calculating the distance between her and the brush gently held in the space between his palm and fingers. ❝ if you don't mind that is. ❞ mikleo murmurs and while they aren't facing one another , his voice is offering everything that one broke college kid can to her. his hands are steady and his fingers lightly brushing over the handle she always cradled with sure care. not asking , just offering , just waiting. and he takes edna glance as his yes. he's learned what her various expressions mean. neither of them say a word , but they both do not need to. in this small , simple exchange , mikleo is being given something. it’s not just the brush , not just the gesture , but something deeper. a trust that she doesn’t always express , but that he feels in the way her fingers curl around the handle , in the way she lets him hold her in his arms without retreating.
he untangles his arms from around her only enough to shift — his thigh still against hers , his knees still folded close against the curve of her body , like he cannot bear to lose the shape of her just yet. he begins brushing the ends of her hair with the kind of care that makes the air hum — starting slow , featherlight , from the tips of gold spun through stormlight ( a tenderness born not from duty , but devotion ): each stroke deliberate , like an act of worship , with a rhythm that came naturally. slow , steady , purposeful. and with every pass , he exhales — soft , warm , ghosting his breath just behind her ear. but , he doesn’t rush. his fingers , ever so gentle , work through the strands with care , untangling knots with a patience that matches the patience of a polar bear waiting for oceans to refreeze in the arctic. he brushes from her ends first , then moves towards her roots and each stroke is tender ( every movement meant to soothe , to comfort , to connect ): he can feel the weight of her hair in his hands , the way it falls softly against her back , the way it catches the light in the most beautiful way ( as if to coax each strand into stillness , as if to remind it it’s loved ): the rain against the window keeps time for him , a lullaby in rivulets. and mikleo takes note of how edna stays quiet — not tense , not fidgeting , just still — as if the hush between them has softened her bones , made her light enough to float. as if she , too , realizes the significance of this moment between them as his fingers weave higher even higher now but still beginning from the ends before going towards the roots , through every knot and curl kissed damp by earlier showers.
there was no rush nor frustration. just the gentle pull of a comb through sunshine , the slow unravel of another wall she let down. with every stroke , mikleo exhales softly. the air leaves him in quiet bursts , a low breath that seems to echo the rhythm of the brush , a quiet whisper between them. it’s not intentional , but it’s there — every time the brush moves through her hair , his breath catches , a gentle release that mirrors the moment , mirrors the intimacy between them. he leans in a little closer , his cheek brushing against the back of her shoulder as he continues , his fingers never faltering in their careful movements. each brushstroke and when the last strand is smoothed and she lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding — he sets the brush aside with careful hands , gathers her hair like silk , like ribbon , and begins to weave it into a loose , low braid. the motion is fluid , deliberate , the kind of thing he’s done countless times before , but there’s something different about it now. something softer , more intimate. the braid is a low , simple thing — neat and loose at once , the kind of braid meant for staying in , not going out , and the kind meant to be undone later under the cradle of moonlight and sheets. his fingers work steady — over , under , and over again — like weaving memory into touch. when he ties it off with the same ribbon she always keeps looped around her wrist , when not in use , mikleo presses a kiss to the crown of her head. it is an action not for show. not for charm. but just because he wants to. just because she’s always been his favorite kind of blooming flower. once the braid is secure , mikleo holds it in place for a moment , his fingers tracing the strands ( now mixed with ribbon ): as he exhales softly. then , with the slightest hesitation , he lifts the braid , bringing it up to expose the nape of her neck and he presses his lips to the soft skin there. it is a gentle touch that speaks of everything he’s never said aloud. it’s not a kiss in the traditional sense — not something passionate or demanding — but something quieter. something far more intimate. something only felt between the land and sea.
then his lips trail lower — soft as mist — from the braid’s beginning to the curve of her temple , the slope of her cheekbone , the corner of her jaw ( making sure to avoid her lips ): even when he’s moved to now be in front of her , not behind — his arms held firm in his lap , centered over that spot , his breath warming the air between them. his eyes search hers like a vow not yet spoken. not urgent. not asking. just there — unwavering , unafraid. her mouth parts — a breath , a whisper , a question held on the tip of her tongue. but , mikleo doesn’t speak and cannot bring himself to move anymore. just waits , still and infinite , with the space of a heartbeat between their lips — so close , he could drink her in if he dared and so close , the world might stop turning if she leaned in first ( the rain sings lullabies to the windows ): the warmth of her breath mingles with his. the moment stretches — golden , fragile , endless — like the whole world is holding its breath with them. but he's so close , too close. he could feel edna's breath on his lips and it was causing a fire to pool in his belly. too much. too much. too much. and so , he pulls away slowly , his breath catching again for just a moment , and in the quiet that lingers between labored breathes , mikleo knows that this — this small , fragile moment — is enough. ❝ edna. ❞ her name is slurped between his breathing but he doesn’t need more than what he's already done. not now. not when this , the stillness , the shared silence , is all that matters. he stays close. he watches her , as he always has. feeling her warmth beside him , breathing in the quiet air , and he knows , deep in his chest , that she’s still here. still staying , for now. and that , more than anything else , is enough.
