#vanilla sky

“All yours,” Alyssane announces as Valarr opens the car door.

Tanselle sniggers from the driver’s seat. You giggle, loud enough for the sound to flutter against your ribcage, and you fall against your friend. Your head zings, a giddy, gleeful sound escaping from your mouth at the sight of your husband in all his bedtime glory. Standing in his dark tee and grey trousers, dark hair ruffled, the silver streak gleaning in the sodium light of your driveway and his eyes—gods his eyes—melting like two drops of light. Valarr ducks down to get his head inside the backseat of the car, his upper body bending to settle his space into yours.

“Oh, gods,” you huff. “You’re so pretty.”

He laughs, and the sound is like firecrackers, like a sudden, ferocious burst of light. You feel Alyssane poke the side of your ribcage and you don’t care. A cluster of butterflies waft their unsteady wings against your stomach. 

“Well, you say that because you haven’t seen my wife,” he replies.

Tanselle groans. “Get your tacky romance out,” she says, “of my car.”

“She’s just jealous,” Jeyne fake-whispers from the passenger seat, and another groans cracks inside the stuffiness of the car.

“You have a wife?” You push out your lips in an overly exaggerated pout. “And here I thought I had a chance.”

“Mhmm.” He hums. “A pretty thing like you? Sure you do.”

“Is your wife home?”

He licks his lips and your hand reaches out, like a reflex, to trace the edge of it. “Not yet.”

“We have to be sneaky, then.”

“We have to be quiet.”

“I can be quiet.”

Valarr rolls his eyes, helplessly fond. “My darling, you are never quiet.”

You let him sneak his arms across your waist. You sniff, unabashedly, to get the smell of him. He smells as he always does—clean detergent, a slight whiff of coffee and cinnamon. Like home. Like yours. And even in the drunken, post-slump haze of your head, you know the shape of him, the exact warmth of him, fitting on the cold spots of your body like it’s meant to be. He gets you out with surprising swiftness. 

Your girlfriends coo and cheer behind your back. Jeyne hands him your bag and he slings it over his shoulder, his other hand bracketing your entire body. You cling to him like a child, sleepy and drunk and so so rested that this, the smell, the texture of his worn-out tee shirt, the slight scratch of his weekend stubbles against your forehead feels like a dream. You rest your head on the crook of his neck, and you hear the engine of the car drive away and the night shrivels around you like a shot of clean, cool air.

Valarr kisses your forehead.

You pout. “I’ve been a bad wife. I didn’t do groceries and I got so drunk…”

“You’re such a good wife.” Valarr hums as he carries you to the door. The long, arched building is a welcoming sight after a much-needed girls’ night out. Your doorman greets you as Valarr reaches the elevator. 

“Did you have fun?” he asks, pushing the button of the penthouse.

“So much fun. We talked and we laughed and Ally said we should order shots and we ordered a line of shots and we got so drunk, baby. It was fun.”

 “That’s all that matters.”

You nuzzle your nose against his throat. You smell him again. “That’s all that matters?”

“Yes.”

“Missed you, though,” you whisper against his skin and watch in quiet wonder as a soft patch of flush blooms there. “Missed your smell. Your voice… your touch.”

“Yeah? I missed you too, sweetling.”

The elevator rings as it reaches your home. He steps inside with you and you are greeted with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Your heart squeezes at the gesture. He’s been waiting for you.

You perk up your head. “What did you miss about me? Tell me.”

The smile he offers is everything—everything. It’s the drunken haze of a blissful night and the sharp-shooting clarity of the morning after. He is the softness of a smile and the ache of a ribcage strained against your chest. He stares at your eyes and your lips and your heart picks up, sensate, arrhythmic, too fast and too much and you love it just as much as you love him.

“I’d rather show you.”

“Yeah?” You lean up and get closer to his face. Your lips hover, only hover—a slight, soft brush—the barest connection between his atoms and yours. And you feel him flutter, all of him, recognising your atoms. He’s always been terribly responsive to you, drunk or sober. It has always been like this. You call and he answers. And you feel your blood dance at the sight of him, the unabsorbed alcohol in your system simmers. “Good. Because I’m your girl.”

His smile widens and your lips brush again. 

“All mine.”

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