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The blizzard roars outside.
This isn’t actually correct. Blizzards can roar, if the wind is fast enough, but they’re more likely to howl than to roar. Thunderstorms roar because the crackling of thunder sounds much more like than just the wind running fast and flurrying snow this way and that – even wind rustling and blustering through with nothing to hamper it roars a lot more than snow does. In most cases, a windless blizzard is eerily silent, as the snow dampens sound almost as much as soundproof walls do.
So the blizzard does not roar, because there isn’t even enough wind to cause the clothes hanging on the line outside to flap.
…on second thought, maybe Eve should have gotten those clothes inside before the weather took a turn for the worse. When she goes to get them tomorrow, they’re probably going to just be all ice, and then she’ll have to wait for them to thaw and then hang them somewhere else to dry. Maybe she should have just hung them up in the guest bathroom instead, let them hang where the shower curtain got pushed back. (Funny that the guest bathroom has a shower curtain fixture, when her bathroom has big panels of glass. But she’s not complaining. Her bathroom has a tub.)
But Eve isn’t looking out the window into the backyard, where the clothes aren’t even shivering on the clothesline. She’s looking out the front window, curled up on an old armchair her wife moved into position a few months ago, inherited from her mother years and years ago and only now finally with a place to set it. There are floral patterns etched all over the sky blue fabric, and it’s thick and upright and surprisingly comfortable, for an old armchair. She must have had it reupholstered before bringing it over, but Eve’s never asked. It hasn’t ever seemed important.
Unlike the blizzard, a fire roars in the fireplace (but just like the blizzard, it doesn’t really roar either; it crackles and pops and spits as it devours the logs within). Smoke filters up through the flue, but Eve can’t see that, can’t see the pillar threaded through with falling snow. Instead, she sees the snow falling thick and fast, sees how light everything looks outside, even though it should be dark, all of that streetlight brightness locked between the snow on the ground, the snow in the sky, and the clouds thick above.
Wrapped in a thick brown and blue plaid blanket with white accents threaded through, a mug of hot cocoa coffee spiced with cinnamon and more than a dollop of Baileys, chest warm with hot drink and that slight bit of booze, head nowhere near buzzed but quietly calm and content, Eve sits and stares and waits.
“What’s it like out there?” her wife asks in that deep, husky voice of hers, wrapped in the soft, fuzzy pink bathrobe Eve bought her for her birthday less than a month ago. It doesn’t fit quite right, since it wasn’t made for her body type, but Claire wears it as best she can. Her bright blue eyes widen as she catches sight of the storm outside, and she lets out a low whistle. “It looks like a mess.”
Eve turns to her wife with the gentlest of smiles. “Good thing I convinced you to stay home today, hm, Mrs. Valentine?” She gestures for Claire to join her, and Claire does so, pulling an even softer velvet cream blanket from the back of their parlor couch and draping it around her as she sits on the ground just at Eve’s feet. Immediately, Eve threads her hair through Claire’s still damp hair, massaging her skull. “Feeling better?”
“Mmhm.” Claire closes her eyes and hums an idle sound of contentment. She reaches one hand out, and Eve places a second mug in her hand – still hot cocoa, still spiked with more than a dollop of Bailey’s, but without any of the coffee that, this late, will set her heart pounding, mind spiraling, and anxiety racing. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Eve bends down and kisses the top of Claire’s head before beginning to French braid her hair. She makes sure to keep it a little loose; she doesn’t want Claire’s hair to snap as it dries, although she wouldn’t mind braiding it again in the morning. (If Claire wants it to look perfect for work, then she will need to braid it again, even if her hair doesn’t snap. Sleeping with it like this means that some strands will pull out, no matter what they do. They don’t really mind.) “There are some cinnamon chocolate chip cookies in the kitchen, if you’re hungry.”
Claire groans with suppressed pleasure. “I wondered what smelled so good.” She leans back until the crown of her forehead rests against Eve’s knees so that she can meet her eyes. “You’ve been busy.”
Eve smiles fondly. “I wanted to take some to Brendan’s hockey practice tomorrow. Those boys could use a good snack.” She notes how Claire averts her gaze, and her brow furrows. “What?”
“Not sure their coach will endorse sweets for snacks—”
“If I remember correctly,” Eve starts, tugging on Claire’s hair where she holds the unfinished braid, “your coach liked when I brought cookies.”
Claire chuckles as she lowers her head. “If I remember correctly, those cookies were just a distraction.”
“You were in a speedo!” Eve slaps Claire’s arm with each word, emphasizing them. “I was a kid, and you were hot, and dripping wet—” She bites her lower lip.
“Did I complain?” Claire gives her a look. “Except for the were hot. Are you saying I’m not hot anymore?” She pouts and looks up at her with big, round eyes.
“Oh, so hot.” Eve brushes a few stray hairs back. “The hottest.” She leans down and murmurs, “There’s absolutely no one as hot as you,” before kissing her forehead. She smiles, then, and slowly tilts Claire’s hair back so she can finish her braid. “It doesn’t…it doesn’t bother you, my liking you in the speedo, does it?”
For the briefest of moments, Claire is silent, and Eve is afraid she’s said something wrong, afraid she shouldn’t have brought it up at all. She tries to focus on her braiding, finds that she stumbles a few times, and goes back to fix them before Claire says anything at all. Finally, Claire replies, her voice a hush, “No.” Her gaze focuses on the fire, and its flames flicker within her eyes. “I’m never wearing it again.”
“I know.” Eve hesitates, then says, “I don’t mind.” She takes a deep breath and continues in as cheery a voice as she can muster, “Besides, I want to see you in a bikini. Bright yellow. Polka dots.”
Claire glances up. “Like the song?”
“Exactly.”
There’s silence then, only filled with the crackling of the dying fire before Claire murmurs, so softly Eve can barely hear it over the last pop, “Thank you.”
Eve doesn’t say anything, letting the silence linger more comfortably as she finishes Claire’s braid. She ties it off at the end and then taps between Claire’s shoulder blades twice, just where the tip of the braid hits. “Done.”
Claire runs her fingers along the braid and seems to relax. Then she pushes herself up, stretches backward, and walks off without another word, leaving her mug of hot chocolate behind.
Again, Eve is afraid that she’s said something wrong – or hasn’t said something where she should have said a lot. She takes a deep breath, carefully stands from her armchair, just as carefully passes Claire’s mug without tipping it over, and places another log on the fire, prodding it with the poker a few times. Her throat catches, and she hates it. This isn’t so bad, really. She’s just always been an easy crier. She hates it.
It’s while Eve’s bent forward, the poker gone, warming her hands over the fire, that she feels Claire’s arm wrap around her waist, feels Claire’s head press gentle into her back. “I thought you were mad at me,” she murmurs.
“Never.” Claire brushes her head against Eve’s back, her words muffled. “I wanted a cookie while it was still hot.” She wraps her other arm around Eve’s waist and holds one of the cinnamon chocolate chip cookies out for her. It’s missing a huge bite. “But you can finish it, if it’ll make you feel better.”
Eve leans down just enough to take a timid bite. “Dip it in your hot chocolate,” she suggests, eyes lighting up with the newfound blaze.
Claire carefully unwinds from her with a hum of interest, and as Eve turns, she walks over to her mug, dips the cookie in, and then takes a bite. Her eyes close with pleasure, and she hums again, this time with contentment. “Eve, I think this is the best thing you’ve ever made.”
“Better than the cinnamon basil muffins?” Eve asks, walking over to meet her.
“For sure.” Claire rolls her eyes. “Those things were horrible—”
“You said they were great!” Eve’s mouth drops open. The only reason she doesn’t give Claire a shove is that she’s afraid of knocking the mug of hot chocolate over. Then, when Claire sets the mug on a side table, she shoves her with an exclamation of realization, “You’re why I lost the recipe!”
Claire winces. “Maybe?” She bites her lower lip with the barest hint of mischief. “Maybe it was Brendan.”
“!!!!” Eve shoves Claire again, and this time, Claire stumbles back into the armchair, her eyes wide with worry. But Eve just rolls her eyes, climbs into Claire’s lap, and pulls the blanket up around them. “Don’t lie to me again, Claire. I hate it when you lie.” She traces one finger along Claire’s chest as she tucks her head against her wife’s neck. “Promise me you won’t lie to me again.”
Claire doesn’t say anything, and Eve looks up until she meets her wife’s eyes. Instead of giving her wife a verbal response, Claire bends down and kisses her forehead. “I love you.”
“If you love me, you won’t lie.”
“I love you,” Claire repeats again with a deeper chuckle. She threads her fingers through Eve’s hair and then glances outside. “With all the snow, maybe I should take tomorrow off, too.”
Eve’s eyes widen. “You? Take two days off in a row?” She scoffs. “That doesn’t sound like the Claire I know.”
One corner of Claire’s lips lifts in a wry, lopsided grin. “Maybe you don’t know everything about me,” she says. Then she holds up the last little bite of cookie. “Or maybe I just don’t want to share these with anyone.”
Eve laughs. “We can make another batch. Together. Tomorrow.” She nuzzles against Claire’s neck again, hiding there.
Claire just runs her fingers through her hair. “I’m looking forward to it.”