#thank you for sending this chez ♡

[swordluck]

Laurentius taps out a text message, deletes it, taps it out again, and quickly hits send before he can talk himself out of it.

i was looking at that picture you sent again and it just sort of takes the air out of me every time i realize you're my girl.

He is absolutely positive he has mucked something up the moment he sends it, but there it is, off in the ether, well away from his ability to take it back.

This romance stuff is for the birds, he grumbles inwardly. Which birds, he isn't sure, but not any of them that look like him, that's for certain.

Home again.  Shoes neatly by the door, candles aglow, the kettle rising to a rolling boil, steam climbing the kitchen window.  Outside, the world was dark.  Inside, it basked in warm white light, baked in the homely scents of cinnamon and juniper berry.  From an outdated sound system, the velvet charm of classic crooners poured, Dean Martin singing of a blue moon and love found – a fitting backdrop as her phone softly chimed, Laurentius’ name shining in her notifications.

Anri read the message as she lingered by condensation-cloaked glass.  The world outside was a blur of amber streetlights and the hum of distant traffic, but here, in the stillness of her cosy little apartment, his words burned brighter than any township or city beyond.  Her heart, fragile and hopeful, fluttered against her ribs like a trapped songbird. 

She read it again, and again, and then a third time for luck, her face scrunched with unbridled joy.  There was an honesty to Laurentius’ confession, a rawness that made her chest ache with something sweet and unfamiliar.  It was far from the polished charm she had seen others wield like a knife – his words felt earnest, almost vulnerable, as if his fingers had trembled when he pressed send. 

Anri placed her phone on the worn kitchen table, her fingers lightly brushing the screen, reluctant to let the moment slip away too quickly, but equally reluctant to rush through it.  Leaning back against the worktop, her gaze drifted to the smudged horizon beyond the window.  She could picture Laurentius now, in some dimly lit corner of his world, the sharp edges of his life carved into his posture.  He was rough-hewn, certainly, but he adored her, he made her feel safe.  With him, she was sure to see true love’s face – unmasked, bare, beautiful.

His girl.  He had called her his girl.  Not with possession, but with wonder, as if he could scarcely believe it.  The weight of those words sank their tender hooks into her, leaving her breathless in their wake.

Exhaling slowly, still smiling, Anri reached for her phone once more.  There would be no perfect reply to match his raw sincerity.  All the same, when she finally tapped her response – her touch light, sure – she committed her truths to the ether without hesitation:

I hope it never gets old. I hope I always take your breath away. I know I’ll thank my lucky stars every day for you.

Drunk on the honey of their romance, Anri spun a giddy, girlish circle, her skirt flaring and swirling.  When she came to a halt, she stood, the city’s murmurs fading into nothingness as she wondered if he felt it too – the joy of being wanted so wholly, of being seen as nothing short of a blessing.  A moment later, her thumbs hovered over the keys again, her expression brightening with anticipation as she hurried to add:  

Dinner’s in the oven. What time will you get here? You’d better come hungry!