꧁ʙᴏʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘʟᴇ꧂

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 91

꧁✧✧✧꧂

𝕿hat's how they find themselves several hours later, not a single muscle moved.

Not for the shortage of feasibility in Romie's instance, in lieu, the severe deprivation of something else that causes her chest to ache an ache his weight isn't guilty of. For all she's concerned, his heavy bones can compress hers deep into the mattress, forge a depression they'll sink into fooling around night and day.

That sort of depression is welcomed with Mia Potter like open arms, a sharp contrast to the other, evoked from half a lifetime absent of warmth and care and basic human affection. Touch. He's missed out on so much touch it's deplorable, unforgivable. Romie struggles to forgive for book endings unintentionally spoiled, mistreatment, meant and intentional mistreatment at that, of her other half, her better half, warrants a merry chase. And a thumping good one at that.

So, no, Romie doesn't bat an eye to the fact he's more or less smothering her, uniformly expanding ribcages collided and acute hips slotted in between the throbbing stretch of hers. It feels good. To have him like this, a sprinkle of vulnerability and clinginess, and to know he feels comfortable to do so. She knows he is, just like she knows he's awake. Her habitual early riser.

Early waker seems the more appropriate term today, neither possessing any incentive to move anytime soon, over the moon the bundle of joy that is James Potter is atleast twenty five Forbidden Forests away, well out of range for loud choruses of rise and shine, awaken and sparkle, up and at em. James couldn't disturb them. The same doesn't apply for someone else with an akin track record.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?"

Romie's sleepy eyes fly open as the locked door does, strolling in, all high and mighty, a certain someone she has no recollection of enabling entry. A certain someone she has a distinct memory of slyly steering off course. That slick git. Protective mode turned on and switched to the highest level, fiercest level, Romie prepares to teach Evan Rosier a lesson. One that involves the Giant Squid and shedding selkies.

But she's forestalled before she has the chance, beaten to it before she can move a single muscle. He's putting his own to work instead. Fingers, long and masculine and deft in their movements, grasp the insulating comforter's upper fringe, drawing it as high as it can possibly go without exposing toes to the chill prancing in the air. Frostbite exists.

Evan no longer does, atleast from their standpoint, engulfed in an intimate darkness that has the opposite effect of the hideous invisibility cloak the Marauders trekked the hallways under in their time. It's likely Evan could see them, the cuddling outline of them, but they couldn't see him, pretend he doesn't exist and that's good enough for them.

Fantastic for them, a moment later, when Hestia's mention of leg warmers lures him out and back into the quaint common room, leaving them be. A joint mental note is made to upgrade her Christmas gift this year. Romie lets out a small sigh, irritation fizzling out at the rowdy tufts tickling her upper lip and nose. Replaced by something mushy, gooier when she's seeing their unmatched glory too.