@stopmeteor called: nice bedhead. (👁️👁️)
morning after sentences.
she is a piece of elegant furniture, unmoving, arms crossed beneath her chest, frame lean and easy where it settles into the doorway. her hair is already neat, twisted into a spill of twine over one shoulder, and for a moment arthur can do nothing but stare. he is stunned. she looks like a ghost he has only ever seen in pleasant dreams. white cotton, buttons undone at the throat, soft skin and pink, kiss-swollen lips, fabric draped to thighs and—oh.
she's wearing his shirt. just his shirt.
it hangs a size too large from her shoulders, and still she makes it look as if the fabric had been woven for the curve of her hip against the doorway and the crook of her elbow tucked beneath her hands. her legs disappear behind the corner of the bed, and arthur feels a small, absurd disappointment at not being able to see the whole of her. greedy. the thought arrives warm and sheepish.
arthur finally remembers to look at her face. his own immediately colors with embarrassed delight, the feeling plainly trapped beneath his skin. he tries to hide it by turning toward the window. morning has already found them like a cruel spotlight pressing against the curtains. light spills across rumpled sheets, discarded clothes, and all the small evidence of a world they had deliberately forgotten.
propped on one elbow, arthur can only assume he looks ridiculous. hair sticking in every direction, eyes tired but warm, skin flushed and nipped from the night before. the sheets pool low around his waist, and there is a pleasant heaviness still clinging to his bones, body slow with an exhaustion he would happily endure twice.
he can't believe she woke before him. though, he supposes, it has been quite a while since he has slept at all. let alone somewhere so warm.
arthur rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy of his own indulgence. “ unfair, ” he murmurs, voice low and rough with sleep. his eyes slide back toward her, lingering until the corner of his mouth gives him away. “ you can't stand there looking like that and then make fun of me for surviving the night. ” his smile softens, small and painfully fond, eyes lowering to the empty space beside him.
“ come back here— ” he pats the space. “ —i was having a very nice dream, and you seem to have wandered out of it. ”
