cologne- b.b.
âI bought you something,â she says, her voice dripping with an undeniable fondness. . She reaches out with the outstretched fingers, fanning over his arm with intention. Â Not delicacy, but intention. She looks over at him like she can see right through him. Itâs awfully pointed for someone whoâs physically leaning all over him, whose legs are twined with his.
âYeah?â
âYes,â she says simply, arm still resting on his arm, how not meeting his gaze but instead staring at the TV. Sheâs âin loveâ with the main guy on this show, and he doesnât, love, watching this, but she smiles a lot, so. Small victories. Now sheâs still smiling, hand on him and the grin light as air, satisfied for no good reason.
âWhat would that be?â
âA bottle of cologne.â
She hands him a glass bottle of what looks like malt liquor, but it is in fact, a bottle of cologne. A nice one. A glass pine tree.
Sheâs a beautiful woman in every way, the way she laughs to the way she carries herself. Not an intentional thing, not the kind of grace from practice, prepared motions. Her grace comes from something else, something more like light, and he loves looking at her, loves drinking her in.
She makes him feel like the world isnât such a bad place to be, like heâs figuring out how to be a person with someone who believes heâs worth knowing. She touches him like itâs the only thing she wants. Sheâs sitting next to him, her head on his chest, legs tangled with his, and heâd- heâd do most anything for this.
Heâs a soldier. Thatâs all heâs ever been. Before any of Hydraâs shit, he was still a soldier. He was a child, even a rebellious charming young man, but then, then, he was a soldier. He never really knew what this would be. Warmth, safety, a woman wearing pajama shorts and his t-shirt, eating chips out of a bag and holding him. Thereâs no urgency in it, in anything they do. Just the lingering presence of home, of safety. Neither of them have really ever known home. Ever known belonging.
Years and decades of never feeling like he was the kind of thing someone could love. Never believing that thereâs anyone in this world for him, and suddenly- she just walks into his space. Natasha and Steve- they wanted him to try dating apps and things like that. Heâd done it, too.
It always went one way. a perfectly kind woman would go to touch him, do something entirely innocuous, but- he isnât the kind of man who can do that now. Who can let strangers touch him. Heâs just not
Then heâd walked into a party and seen the most beautiful girl, and thought nothing of it when instead of being scared, or on guard- he welcomed things.
Thatâs it, isnât it? Safety. There is everything else, the butterflies, the intoxicating way he can watch her mouth curl around speech, how he cannot help find her in everything he sees. The best, though, is the safety.
Cologne.
Days later, she had told him sheâd thought about him was that he smelled good. He wasnât so good at talking to her, not with a woman he actually liked. Heâd told her that scent was a big deciding factor in how we experience emotions, and if she enjoyed how he smelled that mightâve been an indicator in her attraction.
Which, looking back, did scream brainwashed by Russian spies to have lots of medical knowledge. Which might, not be a turn-on.
But she laughed, a gorgeous sound that was full, not even a little held back, and he could hear the sound of it reverberating through space. Sheâd taken a sip of whatever sheâd been drinking, and said back, âWell, then youâd better make sure you always smell good.â
And now, months later, sheâd bought him cologne.
âLove you,â he spoke into the crown of her hair.
âLove you more,â she replied. She pauses for a beat, âLove you most, actually.â
He doesnât care to argue it, for once. Sheâs wrong, but also right, and thatâs the weirdest thing about love. The weirdest thing about the best thing that ever happened to him.
