#rainy soft

Sometimes it was during the months between films and projects. He’d find himself in her kitchen, laughing at the cupcakes they had attempted to bake for their friends, and his guard had fallen without warning. She was sly; she took notice, but didn’t let him know. She’d simply stand a little closer, laugh a little louder, let her hand brush his bicep more times than intended. It was subtle. But it was enough, in a kitchen bathed in afternoon sunshine and a mess of flour, icing placed expertly on the tip of his nose. It was hard to not love him like that. She felt her heart falling in time with the sprinkles he’d chaotically shook across the treats, colored all shades of red and green with Christmas ornaments in the mix because they just taste better, y/n, trust me. And so she did. 

Other times it was during their monthly movie nights over facetime. She knew it was late for him, she would insist they could reschedule, but he was headstrong. Hellbent with a cause, he’d force them to time up their pirated versions of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade because she hadn’t seen it, and that was a federal crime in his opinion. She’d find herself watching him crash and burn, a victim to unruly sleep schedules, and convinced herself that no crusade was ever more important than the one of counting delayed breaths over the speaker, each one shortly following the rise of his chest. Even his snores didn’t bother her, drowning out and over Harrison Ford’s voice. He was thousands of miles away, but when she closed her eyes, he could almost be right beside her. Almost. 

Then there were the times when everything wasn’t so serene.The voicemails left at 2 AM of his drunken rambles, mumbles about the way she was so pretty and how no one would ever make him quite as happy. The whiskey would tell her he’d be home to her soon, whispers of a promise she knew would be broken or denied in the sober morning. Most times she wouldn’t answer to avoid the unnecessary heartbreak, the prospect of something that wasn’t hers to keep. Sometimes, though, she would. She’d always regret it immediately. Every slurred syllable hit her in her gut and twisted a knife she’d stabbed herself with. But she could imagine wide, glossy eyes, the fumbles in his steps that matched up with his hiccups as he would recount his night in pauses to her. It was a reminder that maybe some whiskeys were sweeter than others. 

And then, there are nights like these. Nights where it’s too quiet, the city asleep while the two of them stayed tangled in comforter and socks already half-way off. The window, wide open and welcoming in the smell before the storm to mingle with the candles they have lit. She has her ear pressed to his chest counting every heartbeat, and he traces novels on her shoulder about all the words he wish he could say to her in that moment. She’ll tell him about her day, terribly mundane, and he’ll tell her about the latest script, terribly hopeful. She doesn’t know if he’ll still be in her bed in the morning, but she wishes he would be. They debate their favorite breakfast foods and his lips weigh down her shoulders with kisses she can’t return. Her hands wrap themselves around him any chance they get, clinging to what she wants more than anything. And they both fight the fatigue, pressing noses into crooks and giggling into delirium. She doesn’t even remember falling asleep. But she does, waking up briefly several hours later to heavy sighs. And the city is still quiet, and the storm has nearly passed, and he is still in her bed.