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It’s a quiet afternoon and she’s curled up against him, head on his shoulder, eyes barely open. The ceiling fan spins fast, cools them both down. Her cheeks are still a bit red though, and the perfect white cotton sheets (that belong to her, of course) can be spotted on the floor, forgotten and not at all missed, not in this heat.
He’s holding her close to him, making sure she’s there, right there, making sure she’s not going anywhere. She lets him, allows herself to be adored in such a way.
The reason behind such harmless action can be found in their last mission, the one where things didn’t go quite as planned. She knows he’s still thinking about it, evidenced by his sigh and the way his grip on her tightens.
“You know, it’s kinda bad for the ego to look this depressed after sex,” she’s trying to get him to laugh, to forget about the new scar on her body, all pink and angry and bruised.
A constant reminder of an almost tragedy.
“I’m not depressed,” he states, all tough and shrouded in denial.
“What’s wrong then?” she asks even though the answer is obvious.
“You almost died.”
This fact should move her somehow. Send her into a small journey of self-reflection in which she counts her blessings and chooses them over fighting demons because it’s the healthy thing to do
. It’s true, after all, she almost died but there’s no epiphany in sight, not a hint of regret.
His voice, on the other hand, is what makes her feel a little bit of guilt.
“But I didn’t,” she says, getting a frustrated sigh in response.
“That does nothing to changee the almost part, Lady.”
“Yeah, well, I can’t do anything about that now, can I?”
Instead of trying to discuss his point, Dante shakes his head and stares at the ceiling, counts the cracks there to try and calm his mind. It backfires, o and the ceiling suddenly turns into a canvas, distorted lines and colors take shape and bring him back to that mission, to the heat of the flames and mess of a collapsed building.
He remembers yelling her name, rushing to her aid, his blood running cold in his veins—
“Why didn’t you wait for me?”
“When do I ever wait for you, Dante?”
(all the time, god, all the time but there’s no reason for him to know that, no reason whatsoever)
“I’m serious,” he says.
She knows, he’s serious, he’s so serious, but she shifts in his arms, climbs on top of him, her legs on each side of his body, straddling him as she stretches her arms above her head, enjoying how he’s looking at her..
“Don’t be mad.”
"I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m concerned, that’s all.”
“About my mortality?”
“About how reckless you can be.”
“There’s this book I used to read when I was younger,” she starts, smiling. “It told the story of two lovers. They were soulmates, born for each other and all that. And, see, they go through a lot of shit together but they’re never scared of losing each other because they know they’re destined to be together, no matter what.”
“Is that a fancy way of telling me to shut up?” he asks, amused and intrigued by her words.
“It would be,” she says. “If I believed in that.”
“You don’t believe we’re soulmates then?”
“No,” she leans down, presses her lips against his, closes her eyes when she feels his hands on her hips. “I believe we found each other,” she explains, giving him a small, noisy kiss. “And we chose this and it’s nice,” dragging her lips across his cheek, she stops to whisper in his ear. “Even when we argue, it’s nice, it’s so nice,” she rolls her hips tentatively, cherishes his fast response, the way he thrusts up to meet her movements, to tease and tempt her even further.
His left hand snakes up to the back of her head, his fingers burying themselves in her hair as he keeps her still to give her a long kiss, one that leaves her red and panting by the time it’s over, craving more.
“It is nice,” his voice is strained. “The nicest thing I’ve ever had.”
And I don’t want to lose it is what goes unsaid.
“My point is,” she tries to remain calm and collected, hoping her heart isn’t beating too loud. “If something happens to me, I’ll find you again. Somehow. We’ll keep finding each other.”
He cups her cheek, stares right into her eyes.
“Nothing is going to happen to you,” he promises, giving no time for her to respond and kissing her once more, silently vowing never to live without her.
(let his blood dry, damn, let him bleed out on the ground but not her, no, never her.)