“Are you nearly done?” she spoke, fingers reaching out to touch your waist. She’s warm, and it feels very sweet when she presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, worn sweater of hers hanging off your frame. It’s the warmest feeling, her arms wrapping around your waist. Her sweater was given to you when she was in college. A small liberal art school on the coast, her fingers drumming on the counter top.
You stir the spaghetti, and you smile, nodding.
“It’s almost done, babe.” she laughs, looking at you with honest to god heart eyes.
“Look at us,” she laughed, taking a sip of the Welch’s grape juice you’d poured in wine glasses, glasses you’d bought to celebrate your first home together. “We’re fucking saps.” she smiled at you, and you swore to god that you could melt, between the cracks of the hardwood you stood on.
Home is the perfect word to describe this girl, and this place you’ve moved into. It’s tiny and the AC is awful and her clothes don’t have enough room but she’s here. She’s here and she looks like an angel, hair tossed up in a bun and a silly smile on her lips.
She’s here and she is so beautiful, the kind of beautiful you could wait your whole life and still never see. She is the kind of blessing that all those nights wondering if this, liking who you do and loving who you love was worth it, she’s the kind of blessing that makes your heart scream yes, of course.
“Stirring spaghetti and playing shitty music from 2009, we’re such rom com princesses.” you quip back. She rolled her eyes and grabbed your hand, and a spike of worry shot up in your tummy because there was a roll in the oven.
But a beautiful woman had just grabbed your hand and you weren’t about to say no because of a fucking roll. Incidentally, she’d pulled you to an empty floor surrounded by boxes, laying down and looking up at the ceiling.
There’s plastic night light stars for kids stuck on the ceiling. It’s not glowing because the lights are on. The spaghetti smells lovely.
You’re lying down, and you turn to your side and press your face into her neck.
“We’re really doing it, huh?” she whispered. Her family hadn’t loved it, the idea of doing it when you did, and your family wasn’t huge on it because she’s… not a guy.
But you get up to put the spaghetti on plates and your favorite movie is playing on an ipad propped up on a box, and life feels good.
The ipad is all her eyes are trained on, and you look at her, you look and look and look and you still don’t get tired of it because she’s lovely, because she’s brilliantly gorgeous and lovely in a way you’ve always been in awe of.
“See something you like?” she says cheekily.
“Nope,” you smiled, turning to her, and kissing her, slowly and feeling her smile into it, “Something I love.”
