He doesn't turn to watch her go, but he does when the crunch of her boots on driveway gravel goes quiet. Which isn't like Audrey. Audrey isn't the stop-and-get-sentimental type. She doesn't pause when she's got a clue, or a new case. She's been searching for information about Lucy Ripley nearly since she got here. If anything, she should be running.
But she's not, and when he angles around, hands slid into his pockets, all he sees is the back of her head. Breeze tugging at blonde strands.
Giving him just one second, a breath's worth of time to wonder if he should say something else (though saying isn't exactly his strong suit) before she's turned with the purpose he expected to see her walk away from him with.
Back to him.
Directly into his chest before he can even get his hands out of his pockets, or parse what's happening, while she's shoving up on her toes and her hands are against his face and he can feel them, but only until she pushes up and her mouth is there. Caught against his.
Not enough time to ask what or why, when his eyes are closed, and he can feel, he can feel, he can feel. Her. soft lips. Wam breath. Hands tight on his face. Kissing him the way she does anything else. Like she's trying to make a point. Take a stand. Draw a line in the sand and set fire to everything past it.
Hands floating up out of his pockets. That he can't feel. He can't feel them. His shirt. His jeans. The ring on its chain around his throat. Nothing but her. Like the way it used to feel when he was a kid, dove to escape searing sun into frigid, clear, dark water. But the opposite. He's burning.
And too late to get his hands up, to find her hair, the back of her head, her waist, her hips, before she's ripping away and he doesn't want to open his eyes, even as he lets her go. Like maybe, if he looked, it would turn out to be a dream. An illusion. Something he wanted so much he made himself believe it happened.
But there she is, walking away with that purpose to her step. To her car.
And all he can do is watch her.
And consider that this is going to make pretending to himself that much harder than usual.
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rosecarmine
(no subject)
Date: 2018-07-03 11:35 pm (UTC)But she's not, and when he angles around, hands slid into his pockets, all he sees is the back of her head. Breeze tugging at blonde strands.
Giving him just one second, a breath's worth of time to wonder if he should say something else (though saying isn't exactly his strong suit) before she's turned with the purpose he expected to see her walk away from him with.
Back to him.
Directly into his chest before he can even get his hands out of his pockets, or parse what's happening, while she's shoving up on her toes and her hands are against his face and he can feel them, but only until she pushes up and her mouth is there. Caught against his.
Not enough time to ask what or why, when his eyes are closed, and he can feel, he can feel, he can feel. Her. soft lips. Wam breath. Hands tight on his face. Kissing him the way she does anything else. Like she's trying to make a point. Take a stand. Draw a line in the sand and set fire to everything past it.
Hands floating up out of his pockets. That he can't feel. He can't feel them. His shirt. His jeans. The ring on its chain around his throat. Nothing but her. Like the way it used to feel when he was a kid, dove to escape searing sun into frigid, clear, dark water. But the opposite. He's burning.
And too late to get his hands up, to find her hair, the back of her head, her waist, her hips, before she's ripping away and he doesn't want to open his eyes, even as he lets her go. Like maybe, if he looked, it would turn out to be a dream. An illusion. Something he wanted so much he made himself believe it happened.
But there she is, walking away with that purpose to her step. To her car.
And all he can do is watch her.
And consider that this is going to make pretending to himself that much harder than usual.