Miss Alayne, [ he murmurs against her hair, and this close he can see himself reflected in the wetness that threatens to break from her. ] It's really you.
[ It's like—
Stones knocking around inside his chest, or the sound of bells on a cold winter morning, or the smell of warm chocolate on a rainy night; Isaac feels so light, so overwhelmed with relief and a type of unfamiliar joy that he laughs against his teeth, lip caught between the ivory, his whole frame instinctively shaping itself to shield her from an imagined draft. They're close enough that Isaac could imagine them being in a movie, or a television show where they could hem and haw about who kisses the other first (and instead they'd bump noses, and they'd laugh, and—), and Isaac finds a hand curled and raised against the jamb of the door to keep him from swaying, shyness and uncertainty surfacing with as much power as the joy of finding her again washes through his vocabulary.
What does he say to her? What should he do? What if—
no subject
[ It's like—
Stones knocking around inside his chest, or the sound of bells on a cold winter morning, or the smell of warm chocolate on a rainy night; Isaac feels so light, so overwhelmed with relief and a type of unfamiliar joy that he laughs against his teeth, lip caught between the ivory, his whole frame instinctively shaping itself to shield her from an imagined draft. They're close enough that Isaac could imagine them being in a movie, or a television show where they could hem and haw about who kisses the other first (and instead they'd bump noses, and they'd laugh, and—), and Isaac finds a hand curled and raised against the jamb of the door to keep him from swaying, shyness and uncertainty surfacing with as much power as the joy of finding her again washes through his vocabulary.
What does he say to her? What should he do? What if—
I want to hold you. ]
You remember me.