Dear Heart

18. Ollie

18

Ollie

He dreamed of the desert. The way that when the sun hit the sand it sent up a palpable heat he could taste. Sand behind his ears, sand behind his knees, sand between his toes, sand crusted on his skin like the salty rim of a margarita glass, sand in his mouth. Over there, he'd dreamed of ice cubes melting in water, swimming pools, walk-in freezers and Queens winters, snow drifting up on the hoods of cars. But when he got home, he dreamed of the war. They were nightmares, really.

He rolled onto his side, away from the staccato crack of gunfire, and felt the cool softness of sheets. Smelled the musk of sex and the lighter notes of skin.

Oh.

His eyes opened and he was met with a view of cornsilk hair, lying in a shining puddle across the pillow beside him. A bare, creamy shoulder. The exquisite lines of a back. Sheets pulled up over a hip.

Last night returned to him in aching detail. Heat stirred beneath his skin in instant reaction, and something small and damaged in his chest swelled, strong like it hadn't been in a long time.

He shifted closer, curving his body around the smaller shape of hers, and put his arm around her waist. Buried his face in her sleek hair and breathed deep.

Home. It started up as a chant in the back of his mind: home, home, home. People wanted to be held for comfort, but sometimes holding onto someone was the most comforting thing of all.

Wendy inhaled deeply and shifted back against him. "Mm, morning."

First light was a dim glow through the windows. "Morning."

His hand rested against her sternum, against her sluggish morning pulse, her skin warm and smooth beneath the calluses on his palm. It was a surreal, quiet, perfect moment, unlike anything he'd experienced since he returned home. It lulled him into a strange limbo of sorts, somewhere between true happiness and the low-grade panic that haunted him every waking moment. He felt joy, now that his hands knew the landscape of her body. But he felt guilt, too, and maybe he always would.

As if she could read his mind, Wendy said, "What's going on in that head of yours?" tone light and affectionate.

He gave her a squeeze, snuggled her even closer, burying his face in her throat. "Just that I'm really lucky is all."

Her hand found his and she laced their fingers together.

~*~

Ollie didn't anticipate the sight of Wendy in one of his flannel shirts having such an effect on him, but it did. It was red and black, worn soft from lots of washes, and it swallowed her. The hem fell to mid-thigh and she'd had to roll the sleeves up. As she moved around the kitchen, it belled and flowed, whispering against her skin and hinting at her shape beneath. He stood leaning against the counter, coffee mug cradled in both hands, feeling proud, aroused, and proprietary all at once. His long-dormant hindbrain was awake and kicking.

"Do you have cream?" Wendy asked, peering inside his fridge.

"Just the stuff for the coffee."

She pulled out the bottle of hazelnut creamer, frowned, and put it back. Then shot him a smile over her shoulder. "Hazelnut eggs?"

"Ha. No."

She shut the fridge and went back to the stove. "It'd make a good prank, though. Filing that away for later." She tapped her temple with a fingertip and then reached for the fork she was using to turn the bacon.

"Got a target in mind?" he asked, shocked he was able to form words at all. He couldn't stop staring, cataloguing away the slender bones in her wrist moving as she turned bacon, the way the sun struck gold in her hair, the way her breasts swung forward against the shirt when she leaned over the stove.