[ Isaac's hand is a presence along the dip of Alayne's spine just as the flat of his forehead is a gentle pressure against the sloping curve of her own. For a moment Alayne thinks that she has assumed wrongly, that Isaac will kiss her with their noses bumping and the babe-like curl of his hair tickling her temple. (And she realizes, in that very same moment, that she wouldn't quite mind if he did — that unasked is not the same as unwelcome, and that the want that rises in her sudden and strong is not new but something held at a distance for so long that it had been all but forgotten.)
The world stops and starts with the measure of his breath, the subtle heave of his chest against hers as he exhales, the warmth of him filling Alayne's mouth, prompting her to part her lips in the hopes of holding him there upon the soft pad of her tongue.
Your Isaac, he says, as if he belonged to her, as if the hand curling over the nape of his neck was a collar rather than flesh and bone. Alayne has never had anything she hasn't stolen or cheated, never once in her life. To be presented with something (someone) now without so much as prompting takes her aback and fills her with wonder, making her bones tremble in both anticipation and fear, riddling her heart with both loyalty and young love.
For a long moment she does nothing beyond breathe his breath, the air between them warm from one another's mouths. Isaac's eyes are closed but Alayne's remain open as she gazes at him, so many of his features blurred and out of focus, but the whole of it still beautiful to her — familiar and made soft by proximity and complete. They had hardly known one another aboard the Tranquility and yet suddenly they found themselves reunited like old friends. A fierceness clenches in Alayne's heart without warning.
Never leave, she thinks and then shuts her eyes. Never go away again. ]
I was frightened. [ The confession sounds small but feels large in her mouth. ] I did not wish for us to be strangers again.
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The world stops and starts with the measure of his breath, the subtle heave of his chest against hers as he exhales, the warmth of him filling Alayne's mouth, prompting her to part her lips in the hopes of holding him there upon the soft pad of her tongue.
Your Isaac, he says, as if he belonged to her, as if the hand curling over the nape of his neck was a collar rather than flesh and bone. Alayne has never had anything she hasn't stolen or cheated, never once in her life. To be presented with something (someone) now without so much as prompting takes her aback and fills her with wonder, making her bones tremble in both anticipation and fear, riddling her heart with both loyalty and young love.
For a long moment she does nothing beyond breathe his breath, the air between them warm from one another's mouths. Isaac's eyes are closed but Alayne's remain open as she gazes at him, so many of his features blurred and out of focus, but the whole of it still beautiful to her — familiar and made soft by proximity and complete. They had hardly known one another aboard the Tranquility and yet suddenly they found themselves reunited like old friends. A fierceness clenches in Alayne's heart without warning.
Never leave, she thinks and then shuts her eyes. Never go away again. ]
I was frightened. [ The confession sounds small but feels large in her mouth. ] I did not wish for us to be strangers again.