Letters to Robin

EPILOGUE: REAGAN

          There's a bird outside, perching on the railing of the balcony, as it cleans itself. It's a beautiful shade of blue, and I have the perfect view from my spot on the living room sofa. It hops onto the floor, chirping as it moves about. Completely indifferent to Walter, who is lounging lazily next to Esmeralda, the aloe Vera plant. I hold my breath when it hops closer to his face but, Walter simply yawns and drifts back off to sleep. The little bird's confidence and Walter's nonchalance make me think that he's a regular visitor to our balcony.

The apartment smells like delicious spices, and when I look over in the kitchen, Paris is there, whipping up a batch of homemade soup for me. He came home early from work to take care of me because I didn't feel well earlier. It's only two weeks into January, and I'm already sick. I bite my lips as I take in the sight of him. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows, showing off all those delicious tattoos, and a dish towel hangs from the back pocket of his pants.

“Are you checking me out, Sinclair?” He asks from over his shoulder.

“Uh-huh," I say with a smile because I'm not ashamed of it. He leaves the soup to simmer on the stove and joins me on the sofa, lifting me and setting me across his lap.

“I'm gonna get you sick,” I weakly protest, but he just pulls me closer and plants a gentle kiss on my forehead.

“I'll be fine. How do you feel?”

“Like my germs are asking for sick leave,” He laughs and pushes my wild hair away from my neck, pressing his hand to my skin and humming.

“Your fever is going down. You'll feel better in a while, Princess,” I nod my head and snuggle closer to his body, letting him wrap me up in his arms. Smelling like chamomile and feeling like home.

“Hey, Paris?”

“Yes love?”

“I was supposed to watch Noah, tonight, and I don't want to cancel on Alice,”

“It's not a problem, baby. She can still bring him,” I untangle myself from his hold and then straddle his lap.

“Are you sure? He's a sweet kid but when he gets to screaming he can give Mariah Carey a run for her money,”

“I'm sure,” he says with a smile. “I enjoy his company,” I run my fingers through his hair and then press my lips to his forehead with a soft smile on my face.

“You're going to be a great dad, someday,” I whisper, and his expression changes from relaxed to serious so fast if I had blinked I would've missed it. He grips my waist and I feel him hardening against my thighs.

“You planning on making me a dad, Reagan?” He asks, running his tongue along his lower lip, with an almost sleepy look on his face now.

“I'm not opposed to the idea,” I answer, watching as his jaw clenches.

“It shouldn't turn me on to think about you carrying my child but, fuck baby,” I rock a little on his lap, and he groans, pressing his head to the back of the sofa.

“Maybe a conversation for a later date?” I ask although the image of a little boy or girl with Paris's eyes is already floating around in my head. He kisses the place between my nose and eyebrows and then turns me around, so my back is to his chest. I settle into his embrace, and he spreads his hands across my stomach, pulling me a little closer and grabbing the remote to turn the TV on. I fall asleep like that, with the aroma of the soup filling the apartment, and the warmth of the man I love surrounding me.