☆ - Our muses go stargazing together
When he suggests it, Rachel naturally assumes stargazing is a euphemism, because of course it is, right? She can’t imagine that Mr. Hayes, or any other man, is going to lead her on a small hike to a remote piece of earth, only to spend his time watching the sky – except that’s precisely what he does, because of course it is, right? They’re on the same blanket he’d spread out for her at the beach, drinking from the same bottle of whiskey; it’s too dark to determine if the contents has depleted since the last time they indulged, but she suspects not. It’s hers. No one else touches it. The sensual burn spreads through her body as she takes even, appreciative sips, the way he prefers her to, rather than shooting it back. She’s not the kind of girl who regularly drinks whiskey, though she has a suspicions that’s exactly what he enjoys about sharing it with her; he gets a rare side of her this way. It’s his. No one else touches it. Laying back against his chest seems to be her go-to position with him, probably because of how good he looks reclined on one hand, opposite knee bent with his other wrist draped over it, still holding his glass. She can just slide right up against him, let him mutter boring, magical, fascinating, academic things into her curls, and that’s how they stay. The most adventurous he gets is when his fingertips play at the exposed stripe of stomach between her shirt and shorts. The contact makes her shiver, and keeps her on the edge of hope that his palm will sneak up or down, plunging beneath fabric, a hand coming to wrap around her neck as he makes stars appear behind her fluttering eyelids, but he doesn’t. When he says stargazing, he means stargazing. He’s always been authentic with her. She’ll learn that, eventually, the same way she learned not to shoot her whiskey.