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On the second day of her honeymoon, Braeden wakes up to the sky tearing itself apart.
Even though the clock on the bedside table says it's just after seven o'clock in the morning (which means that the room should be filled with sparkling rays of sunlight), the light filtering through the thin curtains is so dim that Braeden can barely make out the other side of the room. Just as she throws the blankets back, another crash of thunder splits the air, sounding uncannily enough like a gunshot that Braeden instinctively reaches for her hip.
But her holster is still tucked into the bedside table and it's just a summer storm, one that will hopefully break the heat wave they've been having for the last week.
Malia's side of the bed is empty, which doesn't surprise Braeden in the least; Malia is a notoriously light sleeper, and she's probably been awake since the very first far-off rumble of thunder. Braeden pulls on a loose pair of jeans but leaves on her tank top from the night before as she opens the bedroom door and steps out into the living room.
She's stayed in some very nice places over the years (and some absolutely horrendous places), but nothing like the cabin they've rented for a full week. The main room is cavernous, stretching up two stories to a peaked roof. Well-worn armchairs and bookshelves dot the room and with the kitchen just off to one side, the smell of fresh coffee seems to permeate every inch. The entire west wall is sheer glass, offering a view of the forest that Braeden thinks rivals paintings for sheer beauty, even with a storm going on. There's a sloping stretch of slightly yellowed grass leading down to the treeline, which continues on as far as the eye can see. Currently, the trees are swaying back and forth, bent underneath the wind slamming into them.
The best part of the view is Malia.
She's dragged one of the armchairs over to the middle of the room, right in front of the window, and she's perched on the back of it, bare feet placed on the armrests. Although it's hard to tell from the back, it looks like she's wearing just a long sleeve flannel and underwear. Her fingers are wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee and there's a stack of Eggos on a nearby table, within easy reach.
"Did the storm wake you up too?" Malia asks, leaning over and grabbing one of the waffles.
"Yep," Braeden replies, crossing the room, her footsteps echoing in the massive space around them. "How long have you been awake?"
"An hour. Maybe longer. I wasn't really paying attention." Braeden grabs a waffle as well and comes to stand beside Malia. She's a little too high up for Braeden to rest her chin on her shoulder, so she settles for wrapping one of her arms around Malia's waist and watching the storm around her. Aside from the sound of the rain lashing against the window, the room falls into a comfortable silence. Once she's finished her slightly cold blueberry waffle, Braeden kisses Malia's bare shoulder, where her flannel has drooped down. She smells wonderful, like coffee and pine needles and something unidentifiable, something that's just wholly Malia.
Not for the first time, Braeden has a hard time believing that she's actually standing here, actually married, to the woman whose mother she tried to kill so many years ago.
(She'd succeeded at finishing Camille off, eventually, but that isn't something she particularly cares to dwell upon.)
"I kinda want to go out there," Malia says, polishing off her last sip of coffee.
"You're not serious," Braeden replies, glancing from the trees, which are being yanked by the wind as if they were mere saplings, and back to Malia, who is simply looking at her with a raised eyebrow. "You are serious."
"Yeah," Malia says. "Not for the whole morning. Just for a little bit. Just to feel the rain." Yet another rumble of thunder splits the sky above but no lightning accompanies it.
Braeden takes one last glance out the window. It's definitely not the most terrible idea Malia's ever had and they're probably not going to get struck by lightning.
Besides, she's always been a sucker for new experiences, and based on the triumphant smirk on Malia's face, Malia's thinking the same thing.
"Just let me get a jacket on," she says. "Some of us are actually capable of catching a cold."
"I've never seen you with a cold," Malia retorts. It's a good point; Braeden can't remember the last time she had anything more annoying than a mildly stuffed up nose.
Although, if there was going to be a time that she got sick, it would be on her honeymoon.
She heads back to the bedroom, grabs her leather jacket and pulls her hair back into a ponytail. When she steps back into the main room, it's empty. A blur of red movement flashes in her peripheral vision and when she glances in that direction, she sees Malia standing outside, her outline smeared slightly by the droplets on the glass. Her long, tanned legs are still bare, exposed up to the hem of the flannel. Her head is tilted back and her bobbed honey-blonde hair is plastered to the back of her neck.
Even through the distorted view of the glass, it's a beautiful sight and the last of Braeden's apprehension melts away.
She's soaked almost as soon as she steps off the porch. Rain drizzles off her jacket and her pants stick to her thighs like they've been vacuum sealed. Mud squelches underneath her boots as she approaches Malia, who hasn't moved an inch. Her flannel is plastered against her ribs and her white underwear, where it's poking out underneath the hem of the shirt, is nearly transparent from the rain.
Malia doesn't say anything. She just reaches her hand outward, fingers already spread, and Braeden slots her own in between. They stand side by side, clasped hands tucked between them, and Braeden tilts her head back as well. She closes her eyes so that the rain doesn't get into them and stays motionless.
It should be a terrible experience. The rain is cold and it stings when it hits Braeden's skin, carried along by the gusting wind. It's going to be nearly impossible to peel herself out of her clothes and it might take days for her boots to dry out.
But none of that seems to matter. Something like peace settles over her, rooted in the place where their hands are twisted together.
"You owe me a cup of coffee. Maybe two," she says, but there's no bite behind the words.
"As many cups as you want," Malia replies, her voice soft and faraway.
They stay in the downpour clasping hands, thunder rumbling above them, until the shivers and the irresistible thought of a hot shower are too powerful for Braeden to ignore.