I'm arranging my hair into a bouquet of curls at the base of my neck when goosebumps erupt beneath them.
In the bathroom mirror, my eyes shift from my reflection to someone else's. Aaron Warner is standing behind me. Or rather, leaning against the doorframe, his bare chest unshaven.
"Aaron," I reprimand. "How long have you been there?"
His lips lifting into a perfect smile, Warner lets his fingers skate over the bare strip of skin between my top and leggings. "Do you have any idea," he murmurs, sidestepping my question, "what you do to me?"
My breath catches.
Instead of responding with something remotely sensual, I repeat my previous question: "How long have you been there?"
There's a laugh hidden between his teeth. I can practically hear it as he says, "Only a few minutes. There's no need to be shy."
A few minutes . . . would mean he not only watched me dress my hair but dress myself.
I scold the blush on my cheeks.
Aaron and I will be married in a matter of days. The embarrassment I feel is an embarrassment in itself.
Since a distraction is necessary to tame the pigment on my cheeks, I turn into his arms. Brushing my fingers over his stubble-streaked chin, I say, "You haven't shaved in awhile."
His posture instantly stiffens, and it isn't until his shoulders align with the doorframe that I realize how relaxed he's become in my presence.
Aaron reaches around my waist and retrieves his electric razor from our bathroom counter. "My apologies, love," he says, more to the device than to me. "You make me forget my priorities."
Before he can plug it in and begin to rid himself of the light hair, I pry it from his hands. Aaron raises an eyebrow.
"I like it," I whisper, tracing my thumb over the hint of hair lining his jaw. Then, with muscle memory, my fingers move down to the synonymous hair gathering around his belly button.
Aaron's breath hitches and he grasps my hand, a pair of bright green eyes warning me. "You do?"
"Yes." I can't help a soft laugh at his surprise.
Although I do like the stubble, what I enjoy more is Warner not feeling the need to maintain his rigorous routines. I like that he wakes up later now. That he doesn't feel the need to work out for hours every day.
That he's become more human and less machine.
Unable to hide his smile, Aaron sets aside his razor. "You aren't hard to please, Ella."
I allow myself to kiss him slowly before I pull back to say, "I grew up with practically nothing. I lived in an asylum for months. You," I whisper, "are a luxury."
"I cannot say anyone's ever called me that before."
I'm smiling again. He has a way of injecting sunlight into my bloodstream, regardless of Kenji's comments about his "cold, dead personality."
Because I love seeing him happy, I ask, "Has anyone ever called you sweet?"
"No." His answer is instantaneous. "Because I am not."
He almost sounds defensive.
"You are," I say, "to me."
Aaron pulls me against him. "I do not know what illusion you are under," he murmurs, "that makes me believe that I am a good human."
"I see potential," I say. "If you're so good to me, then why couldn't you share that with others?"
"Because," Warner says, "I am not in love with anyone else. And forgive me, love, but if they aren't you, I have no incentive to treat them kindly."
"You will," I promise.
Aaron sighs against my shoulder. "You have so much hope."
"And what's wrong with that?"
"It's contagious."
