send.

hurricane

     The air during the rain was humid.

     The air inside the club was stifling.

     And yet all of it was nothing compared to how hot the air felt in that motel room when Jon mapped out your body with his eyes, his hands, his mouth.

     To keep it brief, he definitely proved that he liked you loud.

     The shower is warm on your skin, soothing your aching muscles, and you run your fingers absently over the patches of darkening marks concentrated mostly around your hips and thighs. They look like splotches of purple paint, like half-mixed blobs on a palette, waiting to be applied to their canvas.

     You are the canvas, however. Jon just doesn't like to blend.

     He promises he'll be quick when you slip into the bed after emerging from the steamy bathroom, kissing you on the forehead before disappearing to clean himself off. You only offer a small murmur of acknowledgement, already feeling sleepy as you curl the blankets around yourself. You force yourself to hang on, though, so that you can curl up against his chest when he returns.

     True to his word, he's only gone for a few minutes, and although it feels like decades, it's entirely worth the wait to feel the familiar flutter of his heart under your ear, to settle in as he trails his fingers lovingly up and down your spine. Despite your exhaustion, despite how badly sleep pulls at your eyelids and tries to drag you under, you don't want to let go of this moment. You don't want to forget how he feels.

     So you talk.

     The two of you find anything and everything to talk about, from the concert to your parents to the deep red scratches you'd streaked down his back. You find figures in the cracks of the ceiling and make up nonsensical stories to explain away your hickies. You talk and talk and talk until your throat is sore, and then the two of you just lay there, fingers drumming at his stomach as he cards his through your hair. Silence settles like an extra blanket, and for once, you love the extra comfort it brings.

     It's unexpected when Jon breaks it after god knows how long, his chest rumbling under you. You lift your hand as you listen, stifling a yawn with your wrist. His voice is soft, like he's afraid of waking you just in case you've drifted off to sleep.

     "Hey, doll."

     "Hm?" you reply gently, the heel of your hand rubbing at your heavy eyes.

     "Do you ever wonder what happened to Cass?"

     Your blood runs cold in your veins. You can't find words, your mouth opening before pressing itself into a thin line. Curling your fingers into a fist, you hide them nonchalantly beneath the sheet. You're not sure if they're trembling, but if they are, you don't want him to see it.

     Fish eyes float in your bleary vision.

     "Babe?"

     You've been silent for too long; he looks down at you with concern. You can tell because you hear his head adjusting atop the cheap fabric of the pillow. You keep your eyes focused on the blurry outline of the door, distant and wavering before your exhausted eyes.

     "I'unno." Your mumbling is quiet, but even you know it's unconvincing. Your voice shakes too much, even considering your tired state. You shut your eyes, hoping he'll let it go, praying he'll change the topic, and - 

     You feel a knot of fear in your stomach as he sits up on his elbows, looking down at you. The position forces you to lift your head, gazing silently up at him and resisting the urge to bite your lower lip. It's hard to meet his eyes.