3.1 | six ways to sunday ✓

way three ; champagne and lust

When they're alone, he think that his lover looks like champagne and lust: a deadly combination, and perhaps one of the most glamorous. Charcoal lashes spread against cheeks like a paper fan, fingertips decorated with calluses from years of music.

"You know," he says loudly, a small smile flirting with the edges of his own mouth. "I think you're really pretty."

His lover turns around, kaleidoscope eyes widening as silence wraps around them in flurries of snow and first times. "Why?"

The words come out easy, strung together between bits and pieces of honesty and sage fairy-lights dipped in honey. "At night," he begins, softness etched into his features, "you let me take the left side of the bed even though it's your favorite, and you let me burn candles even though you don't like the vanilla ones I make. The breads you bake don't have nuts in them because you know I'm allergic, and I never have to worry about if you're coming home late. There's an expression you make when you're looking at me, like you're relieved I'm still in our home and my bags aren't packed, and I just want you to know that I won't ever leave."

"Promise me."

The words that come out next are even easier. "I promise."