Antilove

Tredici

CAPITOLO TREDICI

always a time for a first time

***

ONE THING ROSE NEVER tires of in the morning is seeing someone in bed next to her. No matter what transgressed the night before, their reactions could either be a continuation of last night, lingering remnants of a dream, or their reactions could be a resounding slap of reality.

    This morning, it's neither.

    This morning, Rose wakes in a soft cocoon. She's covered lightly in her blanket, with a quiet warmth rising and falling on the other side of the bed. It takes some effort to open her eyes, they're dry and puffy, a reminder of how she fell asleep last night.

    Lucien.

    Rose feels, under the blanket, and she hits home—smooth skin against her fingertips. Lucien stirs, and she moves closer, so that she can study his face.

    It's not like she hasn't seen it a million times before, but today, she sees it another way. She tries to see it in a way that an artist would, or perhaps a photographer, something that Rose will never have the perspective of but it's not too late to try.

    Maybe an artist would see the lines and imprints of this canvas and make something of it.

    Maybe an artist can see how imperceptibly green his eyes can get, or how color rushes to his lips when he presses them together. Maybe Rose can begin to see what's holding up the structure on his face. A symmetrical arch, coming from the sides, a perfect set of cheekbones.

    "Caught you," he whispers, eyes still drowsy and closed, against the pillow cover.

    "Caught you too," Rose replies.

    They've caught each other, on a Sunday morning, and this is a better outcome than any other confessional Rose would have gone to.

    Lucien caught her staring, caught her pondering. And she found him acting, lying still and pretending.

    His smiles broadens, white against pink, canines against delicate skin, and his eyes shut so that Rose can resume what she was doing just a minute ago.

    "Tell me what you see," he murmurs, voice still slipped with a dream.

    "Skin. It gets rough around your jaws, and then smooth again on your neck, all the way to your shoulders and your arms. I see a scar below your collarbone," she says. "Can I?"

    A laugh. She takes this as permission to go ahead.

    But she doesn't bring her hand up to the healed lightning wound on his upper chest, she touches his hair first. It looks like spilled ink on her skin, but it looks warm against her hand. She rolls the strands between her fingers, wondering what shampoo he uses and whether she can still smell it on him. This is before she digs a little deeper, grabbing another handful, and massaging his scalp.

    "I'm paying you back," she whispers, not forgetting how he soothed her to sleep last night.

    "Well, I don't need it," Lucien says against the pillow.

    She doesn't listen to him, and continues running his hair through her palm. Her hands travel to the back of his head, where the hair ends and she trails her hand along his neck, delighted when he shivers. An added benefit is that he's shirtless, skin flush against her sheets.

    The hand she brought forth continues carving its journey down to his shoulders, and then his arms, where they join with more fingers. She brings his hand to her lips.