The Woman from the Plane [Lost Fanfiction]

Chapter 15: The Cost of Living

Ben woke up early on his birthday. He stepped into his office to grab some papers, making some effort to be quiet.

He watched Valerie as she slept on the sofa. She was curled up, facing the back of the couch, the thick blanket pulled up to her neck.

He sighed to himself. It had been weeks, and he hadn't been able to put that dream out of his mind.

There was a bitterness in knowing the way that Valerie had felt about her version of him—knowing that she had burned for that man—ached for him—made love to him. It wasn't that he wanted her—it was a far simpler thing; he had never understood what he was missing—never really known what that kind of genuine passion was like. Now that he had tasted how it felt to be so intensely wanted, the absence of meaningful intimacy in his life stung in a way that it hadn't before.

"Happy birthday," she said, yawning. She stretched, cracking her stiff neck.

He was startled—suddenly nervous that she'd noticed him watching her.

"I didn't get you anything," she added, her lips curling slowly into a sly grin.

"That's alright," he answered dismissively.

"Let me make you breakfast," she offered, sitting up.

"You don't have to do that." Her generosity made him uncomfortable.

She made a face at him.

"Fine," he conceded. "Thank you—for remembering."

She frowned slightly before replying. "It's not the kind of thing I could forget."

She pulled her long hair into a high ponytail as she stood up. She'd taken to wearing an old undershirt of his to sleep in, and it hung loosely over her stretchy black shorts. He'd tried not to read anything into the choice, but the conclusion that she'd worn his clothes out of some affection for him was hard to avoid.

She stretched, contorting herself until her back let out a series of pops.

"Not the best mattress," she noted idly.

"You could sleep with me, I suppose," he suggested. "In my bed, I mean," he corrected immediately, feeling the hot rush of blood to his cheeks. "It's more spacious than the tent was," he added sheepishly.

"If you're worried about the optics, Linus," she replied, "you could always sleep on the couch." She shot a smirk over her shoulder as she disappeared into the hall.

He followed her to the kitchen and leaned against the door frame, watching silently as she floated around, pulling what she needed out of the fridge, spinning around to grab some spices from the cupboard, and turning the stove top on—all in a single smooth motion.

She seemed content—and she was so intently focused that he felt almost as though he was intruding on private moment. There was a familiarity in the way that she moved—this had been her kitchen once, he realized—or rather, their kitchen.

She glanced over her shoulder and noticed him watching her.

He was briefly ashamed to have been caught staring again, but she grinned at him—a broad, warm smile so genuine that—for a moment—his heart stood still.

He returned the smile reflexively, overcome with a strange, aching happiness. He'd seen that smile before—he knew in his bones that he had.

It wasn't his own memory, but it was hard to tease that truth away from the very real feeling it gave him. She was there, somewhere, in his mind.