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Laia was always divine, but she looked especially beautiful when she wasn't self-conscious or worried about others' looks her way. Like now. Really, could anyone blame him for not being able to look away?
She wrote in her notebook — perfumed, decorated by her own hands, dark pink pen — with feverish abandon, like a goddess afflicted by her very own muse. Across him on the couch, she was completely focused, pausing only to cross out the occasional word or line before moving on.
At some point, she gave a throwaway glance at him. Then she stopped, which he would be sorry for — except he loved that look on her. That smile.
"What? No luck so far?" she teased.
"It's not a matter of luck," he retorted, "I'm just not practiced with— words."
Laia laughed. Did she know? That he would do anything, be anything, to bring her that joy?
"I'm sorry to say, but you're wrong." She smiled at him as if she knew something he didn't. Which was probably the case.
Deciding he was done with the distance, he put his own (much less fancy) notebook and pen aside and crawled to her, ending up above her with his hands bracketing her face.
"Ah ah— no peeking." She hid her notebook against her chest — but didn't protest when he leaned down to kiss her.
"Don't worry," he said. He kissed her neck, right below her earlobe, for good measure. And because he loved her. "I wouldn't dare steal from my own future wife. Not even for the most important speech of my life."
"I'm telling you, you don't need to worry. You'll figure it out." Laia looked at him with such certainty that he hoped he never forgot this sight.
But then again, they would have the rest of their lives (!!!) to commit the other to memory.
"Easy for you to say, Austen."
She laughed again.
"I'm not. It's just... I guess writing my feelings down sometimes comes easier than saying them? Or—" She hooked a finger under the hem of his shirt, her touch cool and eliciting a delicious shiver from him. "—it's just that I have it very clear what you mean to me and what I want to mean to you."
"Oh? Do tell, future Mrs Nolan."
Laia sometimes called him her sun, but it was nothing compared to her glow now.
"Sorry, love. You'll have to wait until the wedding." She reached up to kiss his fake pout away. "And, let's be realistic here. You'll probably beat me anyway."
"Beat you?"
"In having the best vows?" Laia sighed. "You're complaining and falling into despair now—"
"Not complaining."
"—but I'm sure you, like every day, will surprise me with your ability to love as beautifully as you do."
He blinked. Swallowed the sudden knot forming in his throat.
"Is that part of your speech? See, you're already winning."
Laia laughed again.
And then, to his surprise, she cast her own notebook and pen aside and grabbed his shoulders, flipping them on the couch so she was on top — something he had never, and would never, complain about.
"I wouldn't mind if I lost," she said in a low voice — a bold move to make when she was straddling him. "I know it's likely. I have been loved by you long enough to know that no one does it better than you. But that's why I want to win. To make you feel as appreciated and loved as you do with everyone around you." She cupped his cheek. "I don't know anyone else who deserves that more, Leo."
He had to swallow again. Take a deep breath.
"I love you."
"I love you too," she said.
Once upon a time, she'd said expressing affection didn't come easily to her. It was stunning, how much she'd blossomed. Throughout this past year, Laia had said so many I love yous that the memory of that scared, shy, uncertain Laia was almost faint. Yet the thrill of hearing it from her, of every little gesture she made to show it to him, every time she reached for him — that was still the same.
He could have always this, just this, and be elated for the rest of his life.
"So, go write your vows," Laia continued. "And please try not to make me cry too much?"
He kissed her palm. "No promises."
Laia fake groaned, but soon abandoned that in favor of kissing him.
Like it happened every day, he wondered how it was possible to love someone this much — to feel that love grow even stronger, surer; to feel it settle in him even more solid. A house becoming a home.
But then she deepened the kiss, and he could not think much at all.
Eventually, after he had tried and failed to convince her he wouldn't peek at her vows even if he was holding her against his chest — he missed holding his fiancée, okay? — they reluctantly separated and got back to work.
Laia wrote, occasionally tapping the tip of her pen against her lips and frowning at the fragrant paper. The speaker kept playing their favorite love songs in the background, low. She looked up and smiled at him.
This time, he smiled back, and started writing. He knew exactly what to say.