But Too Well

XLI : Recovery

WHEN MY EYES flutter open in the morning it takes me a little while to notice that I've curled up against something very smooth and very warm.

Sometime over the course of the night I found my way to the other side of the bed, my arm flung across his bare chest and my head tucked into the crook of his shoulder. My body is pressed close to him, my legs tangled gently with his.

As soon as I realize this, I hurry to detach myself, brushing the sleep out of my eyes. "I am so sorry," I mumble, wrapping the blankets around me, watching his sleepy form spread out next to me between the sheets.

His eyelids float open and that dark gaze settles lightly on my face. I flush. He was definitely awake before I was. There's a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Rosalina." His voice is still foggy with sleep, and the sound of it sends sparks down my spine.

Just hearing that heavy, low nickname from his lips makes my skin tingle. I can still feel the imprint of him against me, everywhere we touched.

"How long was I..."

A chuckle. "Some time around 4, I think."

Heat rushes to my face. I am so aware of the space between us, the way the light streams through the blinds and settles on his perfect face, that jaw and those bright eyes. "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it."

And I wonder just what I was thinking last night when I let myself fall asleep in his bed, next to him. My god.

It was the most restful sleep I can remember.

"Your bed is very, very comfortable."

He leans onto his side, and I can see the bare skin of his chest peaking out from beneath the duvet. Golden, perfect. "You had a good pillow."

I didn't think my face could get any redder, but it does.

To his credit he doesn't reach out, touch me. He must know that even after everything, I would probably let him.

He makes me so damn weak.

My voice is breathy. "You should have just told me to move."

His eyes are kind, soft. It's easy to forget who he is, what he does for a living, when he looks at me like that. "You were so... peaceful." He shrugs. "I figured you could use some decent sleep, for once."

I try to avoid meeting his gaze. "How did you know I haven't been sleeping?" It's quiet because otherwise he'll hear the shakiness in it.

"Good guess."

Silence.

He studies me, I study him.

His hair is messy, but he still looks like a god, very first thing in the morning.

It makes me self-conscious. I probably look so bad, my hair a rat's nest, my eyes crinkly and tired.

Except, his gaze isn't filled with any kind of disgust.

He looks like he cares, about me. It makes my heart race.

"How have you been, dolcezza?"

The roughness, tenderness, in his voice sends all kinds of shivers through me, and I feel the need to be closer to him. It's such a loaded question—I don't even know how to answer.

"Better." The truth. "The last few weeks have been better."

He just nods. The light in his eyes and the wrinkle in his forehead and the crease near he edge of his lips are all full of understanding, like he can read me and my thoughts and emotions and deepest, darkest secrets just by looking at me.