41. Letters
Morning light slips through the blinds, painting stripes across the bed.
I'm half-awake, half-dreaming, but all awake to the weight of her in my arms. Amara's pressed against my chest, her hair a warm halo spilling across my pillow, and she hums softly, something without words, just a melody that seems made for mornings like this.
Every morning, I need her in my arms.
Her fingers trace random shapes along my back, circles, lines, letters. A tiny heart here, a swirl there. I can feel the warmth of her palms through my skin, and it makes me grin without thinking.
I shift slightly, pulling her closer. "What are you drawing?" I murmur, voice rough with sleep.
She peeks at me over her shoulder, mischief flickering in her blue eyes. "Secrets." she says, pressing her lips against the curve of my shoulder.
I laugh quietly, nuzzling her hair. "Secret messages for me?"
Her fingers wander, and I close my eyes, letting the sensations of her touch, her warmth, the soft rhythm of her breathing, anchor me. "I could get used to this" I murmur, tightening my arms around her.
Her fingers keep moving, gliding over my back like she's composing some secret masterpiece. She first does H then a second later I.
I can't help the soft chuckle that escapes me.
Next she does a series of shapes. Circles, squares, triangles, her fingers sketching invisible patterns only I can feel. I reach back, gently covering her hand with mine.
"Trying to teach me a secret language?" I murmur, voice low and playful.
She tilts her head, smirk tugging at her lips. "Mhm, if you figure it out you get a reward."
I nuzzle her hair, inhaling her scent. "And if I don't?"
Her laugh is soft, melodic, brushing against my ear. "Then you just get to stay like this forever."
Her hand drifts again, and this time, a tiny swan appears, delicate and imperfect, right over my shoulder blade.She giggles.
Looks like my Swan got a mischievous idea.
Then her fingers pause, hovering, and she scribbles X, and a second later, H. A tiny heart blooms beside it. I can't help the slow smile that spreads across my face.
XH.
My initials.
I feel her fingers move again, tracing another letter beside the heart: A. My mind anticipates the next stroke.Amara Fontaine, of course. But then her hand shifts differently, softer, and the next letter forms is: H.
AH.
I freeze. My heart lurches.
XH . AH.
Amara Hayes.
I sit up slightly, pressing my lips to the crown of her head, smiling like an idiot. I decoded it. My Swan. My girl.
Mine in a way only she could make obvious without saying a single word aloud.
I can feel her giggle against my chest. "What?" she murmurs, mischievous, her hand still tracing invisible patterns over my back.
I just tighten my hold on her. "Nothing," I whisper. "Nothing at all."
Her fingers drift lazily over my skin, swirls, circles, letters, hearts.
___________________
Amara is crouched beside the dresser, hair tumbling down one shoulder, muttering quick little French phrases under her breath
I lean against the doorframe, arms folded, just watching. "Swan, what's wrong?"
"Nothing!" she fires back too quickly, still rummaging through a drawer.
"Swan."
She huffs, turning toward me with that pout that could knock me flat faster than any punch I've ever taken. "I can't find the bracelet I got for us. I mean.. mine. Yours is right there, but mine.." she gestures wildly, lips pressing together like she's about to sulk for real.
I glance down at my wrist. The blue band with the little swan charm rests against my skin. I've never taken it off. Even when I train, even when I fight, it's there, a reminder of her.
I sigh, even though a small smile escapes my lips. I remember that she didn't wear the bracelet last night during our date. So I knew exactly where it'd be.
I step past her little storm of flying scarves and half-open drawers, crouching down. It takes me all of two seconds to spot it, the thin gray band tucked beneath a silk scarf she must've tossed aside.
Typical Amara behavior.Drama first, checking properly later.
"Found it, love." I say, holding it up between two fingers.
Her head snaps toward me, eyes widening, and then she's on her feet, running. The pout vanishes, replaced by a grin. She crashes into my chest, light as air but all warmth, and I steady us both with a laugh.
I catch a sniff of her perfume, clinging to her skin, sweet and warm like vanilla.
Familiar and mine.
But then, uninvited, his voice worms its way into my head. "Your perfume... you only wear it on Sundays. The jasmine one."her stalkers words ring in my head.
Jasmine.
Jasmine. She's never owned jasmine.She's never smelled of jasmine, not once in all these months, not in the mornings when she crawls into my arms half-asleep, not in the evenings when she folds herself against me on the couch.
Vanilla, always vanilla or sometimes lavender or roses.
Unless she used to. Unless she stopped.
The thought sours on my tongue, but I shove it down, lock it away. I won't let his voice steal this moment. Not when she's looking up at me like I just pulled the world back together with my bare hands.
I slide the bracelet onto her wrist and close my fingers gently over it, grounding us both. "There. Perfect."
Her lips part on a little sigh, the storm in her chest finally quiet. And just like that, the only scent I let myself breathe is hers. She shakes her head with a little laugh, annoyed at herself. "Gosh, I'm so forgetful."
"Don't worry about it, Swan." I tilt my head down and brush a kiss against her nose, catching the way her breath hitches before she wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me closer.
"Every time you lose it," I murmur, my hand cupping the back of her head, "I'll be there to find it for you. I'll always put it back on."
"And if I lose myself?" she asks quietly, there's a trace of something deeper in it.
I cup her face, pulling her even closer, until there's no air left between us. "Then I'll find you too."
Her smile softens, her blue eyes catching the morning light, impossibly blue. "Promise?"
"Mhm," I nod, holding her gaze like it's the only truth in the room. "Promise."
I brush my thumb over her cheekbone, and that sapphire glint in her eyes pulls me under, same way it did the first time. The pendant I gave her rests against her collarbone, catching the morning light like it was made for her.
She never takes it off. Not in rehearsals, not in bed, not even in the shower.
And every time I see it there, gleaming against her skin, something stupidly proud swells in me. Like I stamped my name on the universe and it chose to stay.
I lower my forehead to hers, grinning against the curve of her smile. "You make that necklace look better than the damn jeweler ever could."
She laughs, soft and disbelieving, brushing her lips against mine. "That's because you picked it."
Her palms are warm against my jaw, fingertips brushing over the scruff on my chin. She tilts her head, studying me like I'm one of her ballets, every move, every detail under her sharp blue gaze.
Mhm, scruff. I usually keep my face clean shaved, cause it feels better that way for me.
But I want to see what Amara likes me in. So I could so I let it grow, just a little, like an experiment. A week, I tell myself to see if she notices or teases me.
She always notices, though.
She murmurs, thumb ghosting over the stubble. "It's.. different." Her voice is that soft mix of amusement.
"Different good or different bad?" I ask, grinning, because I'm a coward and a show-off in equal measure. She bites her lower lip, thinking, and for a second I swear she looks indecisive and then decisive in the sweetest way.
"Different good." she says, leaning in to press her mouth to my jaw. "But you still look better clean shaven."
"Is that so, Swan?" I ask her as an idea tickles in the back of my mind.
"Yes, you look-" her words get cut down, when I lift her into my arms and go to the bathroom, "Xav!"
The walk to the bathroom is short, my footsteps soft on the hardwood, but it feels ridiculously ceremonial. When I set her on the counter, the cool marble sends a tiny shiver up her spine.
The mirror catches us- her hair messy from bed, my scruff shadowed against my jaw. I watch her study me, browsing every line as if deciding whether to keep the step. Her eyes go soft, then mischievous.
"Do it, Amara," I say, voice lower than I mean to. "I'm yours, after all."
I hand her the cream and the razor, she takes it slowly, and puts a little on her palm before spreading it on my face.The foam is cool against my skin, she spreads it in slow, circular motions, fingertips grazing my jaw with a tenderness that makes something loosen inside my ribs.
She places the razor against my cheek with a reverence that makes me want to tell her she's being ridiculous and also worship her for it. Her hand is steady surprising, given how gentle it seems against my jaw, cause of my fists and fury.
When she reaches my chin, her knuckles brush my skin. I watch her profile in the mirror: the delicate slope of her nose, the soft set of her mouth, the way her throat moves when she swallows. Her eyes narrow slightly with concentration, but there's a smile playing at the corner of her lips.
When she finishes, she wipes my cheek with a towel, then reaches up to brush hair from my forehead. Her fingers linger, thumb resting against my temple like she's anchoring me.
She moves her head back to study my face.
And I do the same- flushed, eyes bright, the satisfaction of accomplishment softening her features.
She smiles, cheeks flushed "Told you I'd make you look better."
She never said those words, but the way they land feels like a little confession anyway. It warms me more than it should.
She does make me better. With her, I feel like a whole new person.
"Yeah," I answer, folding her against me. "You always do."
She shakes her head as she slides off my counter and walks to the kitchen.
I follow her because how the hell can I not?
She opens the fridge, humming to herself, softly muttered under her breath, almost like she doesn't mean for me to hear. "Cet homme va me tuer un jour."
("This man will kill me one day.")
I pause in the doorway, smirking "What did you say, Swan?"
"Rien!"she chirps, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear like a tell.
("Nothing!")
"I like when you speak French," I murmur, letting the words brush her skin like a secret. "Even when you're trying to curse me out." I add, "You could be planning my downfall in French, and I'd still say thank you."
"I wasn't!" she says "I-"
She stops talking when I cup her cheek. My thumb traces the soft curve of her jaw. Her skin is warm beneath my hand. "You talk too much when you're nervous" I say quietly.
Her lips part, indignant. "I'm not nervous-"
I lean closer, my voice dropping to a whisper meant only for her. "Should I say it in French? Would that make it better?"
She looks at me like I've set the world on fire and handed her the match. "Say what in French?" she whispers back, barely holding herself together
My thumb grazes her lower lip, slow, reverent, like I'm memorizing the shape. I bend my head until my forehead almost rests against hers, every inch of me aching to close the distance.
"That I'm in love with you, Amara."
"Je t'aime plus." She replies, with a smile.
("I love you more.")