Chapter Text
iv. they pause
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Will wakes to cool sheets and an empty bed and his heart clenching painfully in his chest; that way it does when you’re mid way through falling and your alarm clock sounds, throwing you from a nightmare.
He feels his muscles settle back into his skin with a heavy ache and the unmistakable rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins; his breath slows only as he blinks open his eyes, taking in the soft grey dawn as it crawls across the ceiling.
There’s an achy-gnawing pressure in his chest and his arms reach out across the mattress before he can stop them – one weekend and he’s already missing the curves of Lizzie lying by his side. He turns to rest on his left shoulder and the room around him is silent and still – he remembers the muffled sound of her breathing and the jasmine scent of her hair and the warmth clinging down his side where she was pressed against him – it’s 6 in the morning and much too early to ring her, but he desperately wants to hear her voice.
She’s groggy in the mornings, voice rough and somehow gentle at the same time. She crawls up across his chest and rests her cheek against his heart and mumbles against him so that wet lips skim his skin and tickle down to his stomach.
He rolls over and without thinking, sends a quick message her way.
Good morning love.
On Monday afternoon he arrived home to an empty house. On Tuesday morning, upon waking, he panicked slightly when she wasn’t in his arms. By Wednesday he’d come to accept that the heavy feeling in his chest was simply missing her – like a lost limb, or phantom fingers; when he’s with her she’s like honey in his veins, all sweet and endlessly flowing, but without her the days are long and cold and still and he stumbles between them; lost.
He has cereal in a bowl sitting on the kitchen bench and a large mug of coffee while reading the newspaper – he’s old fashioned, he likes the physical spread – though Gigi has spent nearly two years trying to convince him otherwise. He gets through three answers in the cryptic crossword before the dredges of his breakfast turn too soggy, and as he drains the bowl of milk and his mug of coffee he sets the pen down beside it on the bench and leaves the rest for the evening with dinner.
It’s a Thursday, and he has a meeting with the finance department to cover the coming quarterly budget and then a videoconference with a company based out of Dubai and a late lunch date with colleagues from the web department. His afternoon is filled with an assortment of reports and documents that need overviewing and he has a vague memory of Mrs. Reynolds reminding him to wear a nice tie and jacket because he was going for drinks in the late afternoon – he doesn’t know why, or with whom – but he picks out a thin, deep navy tie because according to the women on the fourth floor it accentuates his dark eyes.
He grabs his briefcase and the stack of paperwork that always seems to grow on his coffee table and is halfway down the stairs when his phone starts vibrating in his pocket. He pauses a second – his hands are full but he likes to always answer his phone, give the impression that he’s always available – not to mention there’s a small chance it might be Lizzie.
He makes it to his car with seconds to spare, and throwing the contents of his arms into the back seat, fishes the phone from his pocket just in time.
“William Darcy,” he breathes, rushed and slightly relieved, and the voice when it comes sends a shiver down his spine.
“What is wrong with you?” it demands, whining.
Wait.
He stands by the front door of the car and glances around helplessly, stumbling over his words, “I...I don’t...”
“It’s seven o’clock in the morning William Darcy. Seven.”
He settles in his car seat with the phone still pressed to his ear and tries to navigate just how serious she is – this could be one of those moments where she’s teasing him – but on the other hand, she might have serious issues with being awoken before 8 am. “Lizzie?”
He sounds lost – a little helpless – and she must take pity on him because she laughs bright and sudden, warming him as he sits in the dark garage. He can hear her breathe steadily down the line, and though her voice is slightly distorted she still sounds sleepy – he hazards a guess that she’s just woken up and hopes she’s still in bed, snuggled beneath the blankets.
“Thank you,” she finally says, and he’s so focused on being with her in that moment that he almost forgets to respond.
“For what?”
She makes a happy noise, a little high-pitched chuckle, and he scrunches his nose in confusion. “I liked waking up to your message.”
“Even if it is, as you said, seven o’clock in the morning?”
He has a hopeless smile and his cheeks feel warm and bright – if he closes his eyes he can almost imagine her next to him. She’d be sitting up against the mismatched pillows scattered on her bed, wearing an old stripy t-shirt and leggings and bright green socks. Her hair would be messy, possibly pulled back in a ponytail – but strands of it wisp around her cheeks without reason and last weekend he’d found himself brushing them back and rubbing a thumb down her cheek without noticing. Her eyes are always bright in the morning - they may be muzzy and blinking and her voice rough with sleep – but they sparkle with mischief when they turn on him, capturing him in the moment.
He sighs loudly and rubs his unoccupied fingers to his temple, catching a glance of himself in the rearview mirror and the tight hold of the tie around his neck.
“I miss you,” he sighs without thinking.
And she coos at him adorably, sighing, “Oh, Will.”
“Today will be busy, and I miss seeing you in the halls.”
He so very rarely sounds emotional – his words are clipped and jilted and strong – but now he can feel the rise and dip as his throat contracts, hopes Lizzie can hear it too – that he means it with everything within him. “I have to go,” he sighs, because the clock is ticking onwards imperiously and the finance department waits for no man, lest of all one hopelessly in love, “But I’d like to call you this evening, if you are free.”
She laughs gently – he’s asked her the same question each day for the past week – and each time she’s replied with a definitive, “Yes.”
“You better,” she teases, and then quickly, lest he end the call, “I miss you too Will.”
He loves the sound of his name on her tongue – loves the warmth that spreads through his bones even on a foggy, San Francisco morning. Loves the rise of her voice, the cadence up and down, the lilt when she laughs and the soft hum deep in her throat. He hangs up without a goodbye and clutches the phone sharp to his chest - and then with a great sigh, because the day really will be impossible, starts the engine and pulls the car from the garage out into the misty, grey dawn.
That evening he rings her and she sits up past midnight, spilling her every thought and whimsy to him. He tucks his feet up on the couch and drifts with his eyes closed and her voice humming in his ear and when one of them falls asleep the other whispers feather soft, “I love you,” down the line.
On Friday morning she wakes and panics, because in ten days she hands in the single most important document of her life, and all she wants to do is hop a plane to San Francisco - somewhere in the past few months William Darcy became her calm.
The weekend is spent in a flurry of insane typing, but Will leaves her messages every few hours ranging from – Being dragged to a market with Gigi to buy herbs – to – Banging my head against a wall because paperwork is evil. Save me.
She laughs each time and sends him back something appropriately witty; she hopes he understands how much it means to her – how much he’s keeping her sane.
To say Lizzie doesn’t leave her bedroom in the two weeks before her final thesis is due would not be much of an overstatement. Rather it would merely be a statement of fact.
She emerges from her room only for tea, cookies and bathroom breaks. Beyond that her life revolves around her computer screen, a veritable mess of papers spread around her and across her desk and bed, and the steady click clack of fingers on the keyboard. She welcomes the occasional text from Jane, Charlotte and Will – if for no other reason than they remind her that she’s human and that yes, there is life beyond editing drafts. Lydia, quiet and sneaky across the hall, tiptoes past every few hours to keep watch and eyes her carefully whenever Lizzie stumbles blearily towards the kitchen.
“You’re going to trip into the wall,” she yells, bemused, and Lizzie only barely avoids running head first into the wallpaper by sticking a hand out quickly to stop it.
Lydia emerges; nose wrinkled in a judgmental way that only little siblings can pull off, and reaches forward to pat an awkward hand to Lizzie’s back, feigning comfort. “How’s it going?” she asks, and Lizzie grunts and shrugs a shoulder - then stumbles on forwards, following the scent of freshly brewed tea.
When Lizzie was ten years old and Lydia was a particularly obnoxious seven, and Jane was just entering her teenage years and through no fault of her own had less time for her younger sisters; and Mrs. Bennet had announced dramatically that having three emotional girls was too much for her nerves, Lizzie had decided that the only sensible option was to run away to the coast and join a theme park.
(Earlier that year the family had visited SeaWorld in San Diego and Lizzie had been so enraptured by the dolphins that she’d promised one day to return)
The only person that she told of this plan was Charlotte, but unlike most 10 year best friends, who would have nodded and agreed that it was the smartest, most sensible option, like, ever - Charlotte Lu had raised an unimpressed eyebrow and told Lizzie she was being ridiculous.
“You can’t run away.”
And Lizzie had placed two unimpressed fists on her hips and demanded to know why.
“Well, you have no money. No transport. And why would anyone let a ten year old work with the dolphins?”
Charlotte had pursed her lips, watching her speechless best friend, and when it had become apparent that Lizzie wasn’t going to respond, had returned to finishing her homework.
Lizzie can still remember standing in Charlotte’s small bedroom, breathless with disappointment and slightly marveled by Charlotte’s resolve. From that day onwards Charlotte had been her unavoidable voice of reason; her own Jiminy Cricket – only taller and with a more judgmental air. So when Lizzie calls her on a Monday morning exactly one week before her thesis is due, voice bordering on hysterical, eyes bloodshot, hair tangled and a pencil chewed between her teeth, she does so in the blind hope that Charlotte will make everything better.
“Make everything better,” she demands quickly without greeting, and Charlotte mumbles quietly to herself before speaking drily – “Good morning too, Lizzie.”
“I can’t do this.”
Lizzie’s always been drawn to drama – Charlotte, on her way back from a business luncheon with Ricky and Catherine De Bourgh, barely pauses as she marches towards her office. She has a proposal for web content to complete and Lizzie’s impending doom isn’t high on her list of priorities.
Anyway, calming Lizzie is easy. Charlotte is a Lizzie Bennet pro.
“Okay,” she says simply, and Lizzie, mid breath and pacing her room, pauses with her arm waving mid-gesture.
“What?” she prods, perplexed.
“Okay. You can’t do it. That’s fine,” Charlotte responds, “Just ring Dr. Gardiner and let her know and then next Monday, don’t turn in your thesis, and then fail grad-school and keep living at home, and when Lydia finally moves out in a few years with a great job and partner, maybe you’ll be able to have her room as well. I heard Carter’s is looking for a new bargirl?”
And Lizzie hisses, “You are evil,” with only a slight hint of admiration.
“Lizzie I’ve know you my entire life – when I was 14 you broke into the school gym to retrieve my bag so no one would find the notebook I’d filled with love hearts over Peter Atkinson –”
“Terrible crush, by the way.”
“What I’m trying to say is that you’re the most stubborn person I know when you put your mind to something,” and she pauses, a fond smile on her lips, “You can do this.”
And too many miles away, sitting on the corner of her bed with text books and papers spread haphazardly around, Lizzie bites her bottom lip to stop the tight feeling in her chest breaking into a sob, instead telling Charlotte, “I love you.”
“Good, now write.”
That evening Will calls towards nine with a quick apology and a clipped voice. She startles a moment; a sudden fear that he’s upset sliding low in her stomach – but then he sighs and rambles for a full five minutes about the meeting he sat through all afternoon, and then apologises again, and Lizzie can’t help but tell him he’s adorable. He seems confronted by that notion, but accepts it readily enough – and they spend the next few hours trading complaints and sleepy confessions until Will pleads exhaustion and they both shuffle off to bed.
By Tuesday they’re both sick of the distance and Lizzie drops a pot of tea down the sink in protest against the world.
On Wednesday evening, Will has come to terms with the itchy feeling beneath his skin and instead agrees to accompany Gigi and Fitz to a new Italian restaurant in Nob Hill.
It’s swanky, as Fitz announces loudly, strolling through the front doors with a pleased nod and grin, and Will sends an apologetic glance to the waiter as he takes their coats and leads them to a table.
By the time they’ve made their way through little pieces of bruschetta, garlic prawns and fresh baby octopus, and the bottle of Merlot has been nearly emptied and Gigi’s cheeks are pleasantly flushed, Will’s almost on his way to believing he won’t be interrogated. But it’s a rooky mistake. There’s no known power in the universe that could stop Georgiana Darcy and Fitz Williams from attempting to embarrass him).
Their main meals are brought to the table – Penne Arrabiata for Will, fresh Salmon for Gigi, and a large, meat covered pizza for Fitz that leaves the other two with a mixed, morbid curiosity (what? I haven’t eaten since breakfast, Fitz defends) - and the lively atmosphere of the restaurant is almost enough to carry Will’s thoughts far from the workday. He’s focused on his pasta and the empty wine glass by his side and the man playing a soft melody on the piano in the corner when Gigi suddenly announces, “So, William. How’s Lizzie?”
And he freezes. He swallows around a mouthful of hot, tomato sauce – the slide of chili and garlic warming his insides and deflecting his attention – he blindly reaches for the glass of cool, sparkling water by his side and takes a long sip as the other two sit patiently, awaiting his answer.
“Well. She is well.”
He thinks it’s an apt response.
“William,” Gigi’s head is tilted to the side, signaling her disapproval and Fitz is snickering around the rim of his wine glass, muttering “she’s well,” mockingly.
Will feels the hot flush of frustration run through him and purses his lips, stuttering for a response. Really, what more do they want from him?
“She has a thesis to hand in on Monday, so I believe she’s quite stressed. Other than that I’ve only spoken to her a handful of times in the evening. I don’t want to distract her.”
“Like she’s so clearly distracting you?” Fitz teases, and now the blush in his cheeks tingles uncomfortably. He shifts in his chair and runs his hand down his thighs over the linen napkin covering them – but then he glances up and Gigi’s face is alight with hope, and Fitz’s smile, whilst annoying, is fond and happy – and Will realizes once more that they’re happy for him.
“Dude,” Fitz begins, “This is good though, yeah?”
And Will nods quickly, unable to help his smile. “Yes, it is.”
“She makes you happy?” Gigi coos, leaning forward. She grips the edge of his wrist in her hand and squeezes, and Will has the inexplicable urge to pull her forward into a hug. Sometimes it’s so easy to forget that he has people watching over him – people who care for his welfare and his happiness – people who want to hug him and laugh and cry. He’s spent so long protecting Gigi that it’s odd feeling it in return – odd, but refreshing. His heart flutters madly and he knocks her hand until it turns to grasp his own.
He squeezes her fingers back and she smiles cheekily at him, bouncing once in her seat. “She’s lucky to have you, William,” she tells him, and Will is sure that it’s entirely the other way round.
But he’ll take the compliment. It warms his heart either way.
Thursday passes, then Friday, and Saturday. He spends an entire evening helping Lizzie breathe in and out, trying to keep her calm. She sends him one, final copy of her thesis late that evening – to late for him to have any input (and he suspects that’s her plan all along) and so spends his Sunday morning reading through her work thoroughly – going through two mugs of coffee, and then one pot of tea.
He calls her late on Sunday evening, “You are brilliant,” he tells her, voice soft but strong and full of emotion.
On Monday she wakes at three in the morning with butterflies in her stomach and the unmistakable urge to be sick.
“Elizabeth?”
She has three hours before she has to physically hand over her beautifully typed and bound thesis. Her bedroom is a mess and her hair, also a mess, but Mr. Bennet doesn’t seem to notice any of that when he leans his head around the doorframe.
“Are you busy?” he asks with a small, secret smile, and Lizzie shakes her head quickly, patting the space on the bed beside her to invite him in.
He’s a short man, reading glasses perched a top his head, and he’s wearing an old grey cardigan over his sweater. When Lizzie was very small he would come in to her room with a book from his study and the pair would spend hours trailing through the pages, learning about the planets and the dinosaurs and the time traveling capabilities of everyday household objects.
He settles beside her and lays a hand across her own, “I thought we might have one of our chats,” he tells her, and Lizzie chuckles, nodding. She turns to face him on the bed, legs tucked beneath her, and tangles her hand in his older, worn one.
Mr. Bennet seems lost in thought, peering just beyond her shoulder but then at once turns to her with a knowing smile and a pat to her cheek, “My Lizzie,” he sighs, “You are very grown up,” and for some inexplicable reason she finds herself with tears in her eyes, gently dipping against her lashes.
She hangs her head and shakes it, clearing the tears, “Not really,” she begins to say but her father silences her with a click of his tongue, a sharp smile and the sparkle in his eyes.
“You are more grown up than you think, Lizzie.”
She catches his gaze but has to look away after a moment, too full with emotion and the ache in her heart and the soft, warm hold of his hand.
“I don’t think any of us have truly appreciated just how much you’ve done this year. For yourself, and for Jane – and Lydia.”
“No, dad –“
She wants to tell him how entirely she messed things up – how her videos sabotaged Jane’s relationship, how her own selfishness failed to protect Lydia – how she spent months being needlessly cruel to the man she’s since grown to love. But Mr. Bennet is determined, and in his own way, endlessly wise, and he quietens her with a squeeze of her fingertips.
“I’m not blind, nor stupid Lizzie. We’ve all made mistakes this year, but you’ve done us all proud.” He glances to the stack of papers sitting on the edge of her desk, “Through your work, and your loyalty, and your smile,” and he pats his hand to her cheek.
She drops her head forward to the soft press of his cardigan and lets her father wrap an arm around her shoulder, pressing a kiss to her forehead as she rests.
When she finally straightens, he swings their grasped hands between them, and Lizzie leans over to press her lips to his cheek. “Thank you, dad.”
“Would you like me to drive you when you hand it in?” he asks, gesturing to her thesis – and she laughs a little; the last time her father drove her to school she was 6.
“That would be wonderful.”
Mr. Bennet, a man with very few, but well thought words, nods once and stands with a fond smile. He’s half way through he door when he pauses, leaning back, “And what’s this I hear about Mr. Darcy?” he asks, and Lizzie flushes red, hot and painful through her cheeks.
Her father raises a hand, waving away her explanations – “Do you love him?” he asks simply, and as she sits on the edge of her bed, her fathers curious, open face staring back, she can only nod, for fear of sobbing, and then through the emotion curling hot in her throat she murmurs, “Yes, I do.”
And Mr. Bennet – silent and still - beams wide and chuckles; brings a hand to his quivering lips, and says, “I’m so very happy, Lizzie.”
That evening she has dinner with her mother, father and Lydia. They are loud and obnoxious and Lizzie joins them in their laughter. Her mother sits by her side and can’t help but hold her hand through half the evening, and for the first time Lizzie truly understands what everything changing means.
She’s free now. She can work where she pleases. Go where she pleases. Love whomever she pleases. For the first time in a long time she finds herself wanting to grip her mother back tight.
Back home she’s hugged around the middle by her family and there’s a toast with expensive champagne and strawberries dipped in chocolate sauce; she receives a message from Will, a simple Congratulations, I love you, and when her eyes fill with tears her mother winds an arm around her shoulder and pulls her tight to her chest.
She wants to message him back. Wants to call him and tell him. But the words are too precious to be scattered down a line – she wants to see his face and feel his hands and smell his skin – wants the deep colour of his eyes and the crease in his brow and the safety of his arms – not a technological exchange of pleasantries.
Instead she types, I miss you and I want you – can’t wait to see you.
And that night falls into a restless sleep.
On Wednesday morning she wakes and she's spread out on his bed, his arm wrapped heavy around her waist and puffs of air against the back of her neck. It takes her a moment to realise where she is, and then her heart beats faster because his chest is warm to her back and his leg is resting gently against the curve of her thigh and if he shifted, even a little, he'd be lying practically on top of her, cradling her hips.
(Her parents had accosted her early Tuesday morning with a present – a ticket to San Francisco – and her father had bemusedly sighed, “Lydia told us this was all you would truly want.”
As usual, Lydia was right.)
Now, she takes a moment to appreciate the soft light and silence of his apartment, and then turns herself gently to analyse his sleepy profile. He looks younger in the morning - such a cliche, she's aware - but sometimes she forgets just how young he truly is. William Darcy, CEO, presents himself as such a self assured figure that it's easy to forget that he's barely older than she is, still stumbling through those terrifying years of finding oneself. She supposes he had to find himself much earlier than most - as an adult, a businessman; a guardian.
His eyelids flutter delicately and he has wisps of dark hair curled at his temples and his lips are quirked slightly as if he's content, and she supposes he might be - all warm and snuggly in the early morning.
She feels his arm tighten imperceptibly around her middle and his thigh shifts upwards across her own so that her legs are trapped and never in a million years did she suspect William Darcy would such a cuddler.
Her chest is light and floaty and she's beginning to love the clean, sweet scent of his skin. His hair is dark and delicious to touch so she runs a finger across his brow and snickers as his nose wiggles - his forehead crinkles so she smoothes down the hair at his temple and with a deft gracefulness she never knew she possessed, inches slowly out of his arms and across the mattress.
It's a slow journey - she's still a little clumsy, and Will's arm crawls across the sheets in search of her as she moves. She ends up standing by his side of the bed and rubbing a hand to his shoulder to calm him before she tiptoes softly across the hardwood floors and down the hall in search of a drink.
The apartment is cool and spacious; the walls are light but juxtaposed with the occasional patch of dark paint. There's the expected expensive art pieces hanging from them, but also family pictures and photographs and shelves and shelves of books, cd's and vinyls stacked tight - she takes a moment to read a few and finds a copy of Thomas Paines Rights of Man, The Beatles Revolver and an old, battered copy of Winnie the Pooh all sitting adjacent. There are books on architecture and technology and science; volumes of Shakespeare and Charles Dickens and albums of Bob Dylan next to The Clash. And more specifically; Organic Vegetable Gardening, 101 Songs for Easy Guitar, and a bookmarked A Brief History of Time with post it notes sticking out from all angles. She can just make out Will’s edgy, largely illegible scrawl and bites her lip to stop a giggle, imagining him pouring through the pages one lazy afternoon.
On the coffee table she finds stacked reports from Pemberly, a miniature chessboard and a half complete cryptic crossword. She runs a finger across the puzzle and not for the first time, ponders his mind. She regrets, sometimes, the missed opportunity for true conversation when they were first at Netherfield. Occasionally they had tumbled into analyzing Tolstoy, or Beethoven, or even one memorable afternoon, George Lucas; but for the large part she’d always taken his attempts at conversation as attacks on her personal taste.
She understands better now. Knows his mind a little more, and the way it works – the world fascinates him, but he shies away from it largely; instead he loses himself in technology and books.
He’s shy and quiet, but fiercely intelligent and loyal. There are picture frames hanging on the walls filled with family photos and a guitar sitting in the corner of the room and she hates that she'd once thought this man was bereft of feeling - that he was just another of the many automatons who filled their day with work and nothing more. William Darcy may be a workaholic, but she can see and feel his very essence as it seeps through the room - feels warmed by him in the air around her; his touch and style permeates each object and book.
She stops by the small, modern inbuilt fireplace and the old mantel still running across its top and peers with wide eyes and an even wider smile at what must be the Darcy family before Gigi - a tall, beaming male, a gorgeous woman and a small, bouncing boy, barely older than five. Will has blushed cheeks and glasses too big for his face and a red bowtie that matches his fathers - he's leaning back against both his parents and they're resting soft, comforting hands on his shoulder. What could have been a formal photo feels warm and lovely by comparison, simply because of their smiles.
It takes her a moment, but then she notices the small book clutched in Will's hands and can't help but laugh - she can't make out the title, and she wonders what he read as a child. Tom Sawyer, The Wind in the Willows; Peter Pan, perhaps - and yes, she can imagine a young William Darcy elbow deep in the classics - glasses crooked across his nose and brown locks tumbling preciously.
She runs a finger along the spines of the books laid on the mantle and feels the bumps and the crevices, the smooth surfaces of the glossy gold titles and the cracks along those that have been reopened one too many times.
There's an old, battered copy of Jane Eyre sitting on the edge of the shelf, dislodged from the rest of the books and with a pale blue cover. She hesitates a moment but then picks it up reverently, prying open the hard cover and smiling at the golden brown curl at the edge of the pages. The book is musty, but not too stiff - it's aged but read often - the pages seem thicker and more pronounced from the spine, as if something of the reader had been left with it each time it was opened.
She wonders for a moment if the book belongs to Gigi, but then she notices the delicate curvature of calligraphy on the front page and the inscription, To William, may you one day find the truest of love.
The handwriting is beautiful - soft, even - and she glances over at the image of the woman who once wrote those words; tall and dark and graceful. Never rushed, and with an enchanting, secret smile. There's a formal portrait of Anne and William Darcy that she stumbled upon in the foyers of Pemberly; and whilst Will might have his father’s height and profile, he has his mother’s eyes and their startling depth - and Gigi must have her sparkling personality.
She feels her breath falter as she traces the soft words and for the first time feels like she's intruding - that perhaps tip toeing idly down the hallway while Will is still asleep is not the best idea. She closes the book carefully and lays it back on the shelf and is halfway turned round when she catches his dark shadow in the doorway - she startles backwards with a hand to her chest and he steps forward immediately, trying to steady her.
"Will."
"You weren't in bed," he states, a small, hesitant smile petering across his lips. She hopes he doesn't think she'd left him, or run away for any other reason than to wander, so she steps forward and allows his fingers to curl delicately around the curve of her elbow until she's tucked in close - he has to bend his neck downwards to meet her gaze and she peers up at him open, knocking her chin to his chest so that he takes some of her weight.
"I'm sorry," she tells him, trailing a finger down his forearm. He shivers, and she delights in the trail of hair that stands down his skin.
He smiles gently, whispers, "Don't be," and then, "Are you okay?"
He's wearing a pair of pale blue striped pajama pants and a tight white shirt, but his feet are bare and for some reason she finds herself utterly fixated by that - in the same way she's fixated by his glasses, and his messy tumble of dark hair; the smudge of a blush deep in his cheek as he tucks his fingers in the waistband of her underwear, rubbing her skin.
She tilts her head so that her ear is resting over his heart and breathes out deeply - his work will remain busy and she might be finished her thesis, but the role of being an adult has only just begun.
But despite that, the sun is warming the floorboards beneath their feet, slowly climbing up the spine of the window as the morning dawns, and the only sounds in the apartment are the gentle tick of a grandfather clock down the hallway and their mingled breathing; in and out, in and out.
"I'm perfect," she mumbles into his shirt, and his fingers press into the skin at her back - tiny pressure points of meaning and love.
She thinks, maybe San Francisco would be a nice place to begin.