[ For a good while, Geralt lays sprawled on the tangled sheets (the tidily made bed lasted not two heartbeats), Julie draped on top. His chest rises and falls along with hers, though his pulse steadies quickly as it often does—soon slowing to its usual unnatural pace.
He tucks back a lock of pink hair, then kisses her. There's a lazy air surrounding them, and he lets himself indulge in it. The worries, the unwanted thoughts, they slip away without effort.
When he eventually slides out of her, he stays close—propping a pillow behind them. He draws one leg up, and leans back. ]
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He tucks back a lock of pink hair, then kisses her. There's a lazy air surrounding them, and he lets himself indulge in it. The worries, the unwanted thoughts, they slip away without effort.
When he eventually slides out of her, he stays close—propping a pillow behind them. He draws one leg up, and leans back. ]
You make it hard to want to leave the room.