[ Hmm. He could do that. He could, but despite the playful edge to his smile, his touches are soft, exploring—relearning, almost. He leans down over her, places some of his weight on her how he knows she likes it. His lips press to her neck, her jaw.
He hasn't forgotten. How she curves under him, the tilt of her head, the dark shadows cast by her lashes—he remembers every detail. Seeing it again only reminds him of how much she's impossible for him to ever forget.
When her hands travel across his shoulders, he reaches up to tug his shirt over his head. He knows what is under there, what she will see: the faded bruises up his ribs, the bandages on his back, the shallower lash marks that have already scarred. It is not something he pauses over; what happened has happened, and how she feels about it, how they both do—it's a part of him now. Etched far deeper than what's found on the surface of his skin. He's little interest in hiding it, in sparing either of them by pretending he emerged unscathed. Because he didn't but—
They can move on. He can move on. (Has he ever had any choice otherwise?) And whether she reaches for his fresh scars or looks at him or away, he is quiet, fingers trailing up her arm. He lets her take him in as she will, lets her have as much or as little time as she needs. It's worse sometimes, isn't it? To be the one on the other end, watching, helpless, and he gets that. He understands that feeling more intimately than anyone. ]
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He hasn't forgotten. How she curves under him, the tilt of her head, the dark shadows cast by her lashes—he remembers every detail. Seeing it again only reminds him of how much she's impossible for him to ever forget.
When her hands travel across his shoulders, he reaches up to tug his shirt over his head. He knows what is under there, what she will see: the faded bruises up his ribs, the bandages on his back, the shallower lash marks that have already scarred. It is not something he pauses over; what happened has happened, and how she feels about it, how they both do—it's a part of him now. Etched far deeper than what's found on the surface of his skin. He's little interest in hiding it, in sparing either of them by pretending he emerged unscathed. Because he didn't but—
They can move on. He can move on. (Has he ever had any choice otherwise?) And whether she reaches for his fresh scars or looks at him or away, he is quiet, fingers trailing up her arm. He lets her take him in as she will, lets her have as much or as little time as she needs. It's worse sometimes, isn't it? To be the one on the other end, watching, helpless, and he gets that. He understands that feeling more intimately than anyone. ]