ACHES

11. mine

I slept through the morning, waking up cold and bothered by the afternoon light seeping through the curtains. His pillow was creased and empty, so I listened for him. In the midst of the droning of traffic, and the song of spring birds, was the warm, full sound of his acoustic. I peeked out of the bedroom, shivering.

He muted the strings when he saw me, "Morning, angelface."

I scoffed at the nickname, pretending I didn't like it.

"You need a coffee?" He asked, setting his guitar in its stand. "God, you look freezing."

"I think I'm turning to stone," I mumbled, "Feel how cold my hands are."

I put my hands between his, his eyes squeezing shut in a wince.

"Oh, darling," he pulled me in by my wrists, letting me sink into his outstretched body on the couch. I fit perfectly on top of him, my cheek to his sunkissed cotton sweater. I breathed in his scent, making him giggle.

"Why do you always do that?" He messily brushed my hair to one side, his fingers rough on my scalp. I grabbed handfuls of his sweater.

"You smell nice," I took in another breath, then looked up at him with a frown. "You smell like my soap."

He pressed his lips into a line, "That's weird."

I narrowed my eyes, "I bought you your own soap, remember?"

"And I use it every time I shower," he nodded. His cheeks reddened, just slightly, as if I had pinched his milky skin between my fingers.

"Liar," I accused, laughing.

"I really do!" He argued, but blushed harder. He sighed, rolling his eyes, "Fuck, I'm a horrible liar."

"I'm too cold to be mad, anyways," I let my head drop to his sternum again, shuddering. He grabbed the hem of his sweater, pulling it over my head, covering me in darkness. He didn't mind my frigid hands seeking shelter on his torso, or my cold nose pressed into his ribcage.

"I wish I had an apartment with proper heating," I grumbled, escaping from under his sweater. My hair was frizzy and disheveled, and he grinned, patting it down.

"Then you wouldn't need me to warm you up," he cupped my cheek, dragging his thumb down my nose.

"Well, you won't be here all the time, will you?"

"Sure I will be," he smiled, the bridge of his nose blushing pink. "Tell me more about your dream house."

I closed my eyes, picturing it, "I've thought a lot about this."

"Really?"

"The exterior is a baby blue. I saw a house like that once, and it was so cheery and comforting to look at. Like looking at the sky."

He hummed, "I wouldn't mind that."

"There's a sunroom, and a big porch in the back. A kitchen with a big sink. I can keep a garden in the backyard, too."

"How many bedrooms?"

I hesitated, "Just one for us."

"You don't want kids?" He asked. His thumb traced the apple of my cheek. He didn't seem surprised, or upset. Just curious.

"Not yet," I shrugged. "I don't really know."

"I might like a baby. I think I'd be a good father. I would try, at least." I could see him picturing it, taking care of a child. He smiled, looking up with those round, brown eyes. "I could do it with you."

I smiled back.

"Only if you want, I mean," he corrected.

"Right," I nodded, laying back down on his chest. I listened to his heart, fast and loud. I rose with the waves of his breath.

"If you don't want kids, I don't want kids," he sighed, letting his head fall back to the couch. "I'm driving this conversation into the ground."

"You can retry, if you want."

"I'd like kids. If you want kids. I love you."

I couldn't help but laugh, "I love you."

"Do you want that coffee?"

"Yes, please."

He sat up, hands skimming over my back. I sat in the corner of the couch, and he pulled his sweater over his head.

"You can keep this one," he whispered, helping me put my arms through it. He took the hood, tightening it around my face, tying a knot below my chin. "Looks cute on you." He kissed me, all comfort and adoration. He kissed me to communicate, to say he was mine, just to feel close to me.

I fought against sleep on the couch as the apartment filled with the smell of coffee.