Theea
cause every night i lie in bed
the brightest colors fill my head
the brightest colors fill my head
That low laugh of his rolls through me as warm as the cider, and I have to take another sip to chase it with a heat that’s simpler to understand.
I scratch between Aria’s ears as Damien plucks her off the ground and plops her on the table beside him. I smile fondly at her. I hope he’s letting her curl up with him at night—for her sake if not for his. He’s a great cuddler.
Not that he’d appreciate that said out loud. I hide the thought behind my mug with a secretive smile. I might be drinking a bit fast for someone trying to cover up smiles and flushed cheeks. Or maybe the drink is causing the flushed cheeks. Who can know, really?
He leans against the table, and like always, I’m all too aware of where and when he touches me—even the feather-light brush of his hand to mine on the wood. The contact is gone too soon. It feels like some part of me is chasing the steadiness I found with him in the cave, the one under the fear and the pain.
And then—
Too chicken?
I laugh outright, eyes on his, the sound warm with mirth. "I’ll have you know chickens can be quite brave. And fierce." I take another drink, letting the warmth tingle from my throat until it blooms in my stomach—and leaves my fingertips a little numb.
"A chicken attacked me once. She and her cock of a husband," I say, entirely too serious. "My shins were so scratched up you’d hardly know I had any skin that wasn’t pink and red. And I didn’t even do anything!" (Lies. I had almost stepped on their nest. But hush.)
I take yet another sip and keep going. "My specialty is knives, but I’ll bet you can’t beat me. Besides, I already won once. Fair and square," I add quickly, so he doesn’t get the chance to say he went easy on me. I tip my half-empty mug at him. "What weapon are you thinking?"
I scratch between Aria’s ears as Damien plucks her off the ground and plops her on the table beside him. I smile fondly at her. I hope he’s letting her curl up with him at night—for her sake if not for his. He’s a great cuddler.
Not that he’d appreciate that said out loud. I hide the thought behind my mug with a secretive smile. I might be drinking a bit fast for someone trying to cover up smiles and flushed cheeks. Or maybe the drink is causing the flushed cheeks. Who can know, really?
He leans against the table, and like always, I’m all too aware of where and when he touches me—even the feather-light brush of his hand to mine on the wood. The contact is gone too soon. It feels like some part of me is chasing the steadiness I found with him in the cave, the one under the fear and the pain.
And then—
Too chicken?
I laugh outright, eyes on his, the sound warm with mirth. "I’ll have you know chickens can be quite brave. And fierce." I take another drink, letting the warmth tingle from my throat until it blooms in my stomach—and leaves my fingertips a little numb.
"A chicken attacked me once. She and her cock of a husband," I say, entirely too serious. "My shins were so scratched up you’d hardly know I had any skin that wasn’t pink and red. And I didn’t even do anything!" (Lies. I had almost stepped on their nest. But hush.)
I take yet another sip and keep going. "My specialty is knives, but I’ll bet you can’t beat me. Besides, I already won once. Fair and square," I add quickly, so he doesn’t get the chance to say he went easy on me. I tip my half-empty mug at him. "What weapon are you thinking?"
a million dreams are keeping me awake
