“Gracie,” you murmur softly, eyes still closed. “Come back to bed.”
From her perch at the window, Gracie turns, and you force your eyes open just in time to catch a flash of her sweet smile.
“But honey,” she says. “The stars are so pretty tonight.” Her thumb and forefinger fiddle with the edge of her cotton nightgown — more practical and comfortable than what she dons for customers — and the other hand is resting on the windowsill, as though by leaning closer, she can taste the stars themselves.
“But about you?” Hoisting yourself out of bed, your footfalls are tender against the chilly floorboards and you wince. “What about my own starlight, doesn’t she need rest?”
Gracie accepts the kiss on her cheek with a happy, familiar sigh. “Just a few more minutes,” she pleads when you unconsciously shiver against her back. “And then I‘ll warm you up however you want, honey.”
THATS WHAT IM TALKING ABOUT BABYYY
oh my god oh my god oh my god—
Gracie is my starlight, my beauty in the darkest night, my light in the loneliest hours, and my sunlight when dawn breaks again
@frannyzooey again I ask: what have you done?