They both kept leaning in every time the other touched them.
Was it following a cue or giving in and betraying his resolve if he took that to mean he should…?
There was only so much thinking he could do. Exactly the reason he'd never allowed himself to get close to anything like this before: he couldn't figure out the situation completely solo when there was another person so intrinsically involved. When he cared intensely what they wanted.
(Don't think about how many times he'd had to function by turning such caring off.)
…That cooled his jets to allow him to actually follow through on that quick shower. Almost too much to allow him to get himself back to her side and into her bed.
But again: not all up to him. And at l(e)ast, now, she had some idea what was real, who he was, to actually be choosing.
He reemerged from the 'fresher, wet hair towel-tousled, towel itself around narrow waist, scarred torso glistening in the low light.
For a bit, he just stayed in the doorway, gazing at her. Those crinkles around, such warmth inside, his focused eyes.
Maybe he was an idiot. Maybe he was weak. Maybe he shouldn't trust this. Maybe he should have resigned long ago to prevent being a traitor because he wanted this too much to doubt or resist. But he hadn't imagined he'd ever actually have it.
And right now, he was going to allow himself—whether he was really choosing to or not, whatever later agony it might be inviting—to believe it. He did.
He instinctively started toward the bed, had even taken the hem of blanket in his hand to lift and slide in beside her, before remembering he was still only wearing the towel. He set the blanket gently back down so he could go pull on some pants.
no subject
Was it following a cue or giving in and betraying his resolve if he took that to mean he should…?
There was only so much thinking he could do. Exactly the reason he'd never allowed himself to get close to anything like this before: he couldn't figure out the situation completely solo when there was another person so intrinsically involved. When he cared intensely what they wanted.
(Don't think about how many times he'd had to function by turning such caring off.)
…That cooled his jets to allow him to actually follow through on that quick shower. Almost too much to allow him to get himself back to her side and into her bed.
But again: not all up to him. And at l(e)ast, now, she had some idea what was real, who he was, to actually be choosing.
He reemerged from the 'fresher, wet hair towel-tousled, towel itself around narrow waist, scarred torso glistening in the low light.
For a bit, he just stayed in the doorway, gazing at her. Those crinkles around, such warmth inside, his focused eyes.
Maybe he was an idiot. Maybe he was weak. Maybe he shouldn't trust this. Maybe he should have resigned long ago to prevent being a traitor because he wanted this too much to doubt or resist. But he hadn't imagined he'd ever actually have it.
And right now, he was going to allow himself—whether he was really choosing to or not, whatever later agony it might be inviting—to believe it. He did.
He instinctively started toward the bed, had even taken the hem of blanket in his hand to lift and slide in beside her, before remembering he was still only wearing the towel. He set the blanket gently back down so he could go pull on some pants.