#winter collins

Then the sound of running water, the whisper of her tuneless humming. Her feather-light footsteps when she tiptoes around their room. Closet opening, fabric shuffling, the soft thunk of shoes dropping to the carpet. The hush of the curtain drawn away a fraction to let him doze in comfort in the slowly lightening room. Six or so.

The faint smell of brewing coffee and the burbling chirp of the coffee maker.

Cabinets opening and closing a carefully muted thunk.

(It took him weeks to notice she'd bought a series of adhesive felt pads and stuck them on the inside corners of the cabinet doors to quiet them. Faustus recalls that he teased her once about the nosiness of the cabinets and her moving around the kitchen, forgot about it by the next day, and hadn't noticed them since.

Always so painfully thoughtful. Faustus had gone to thank her immediately because Winter needed to know her and her efforts were appreciated.)

Maybe a quarter past six.

By the time he untangles himself from their blankets and sheets and shuffles his way downstairs, he finds her nursing a mug of milky tea as she admires the expanse of their front garden through the kitchen window, painted in the cool and sleepy blues of a morning yet warmed by the sun's orange glow.

Winter meets his eye, a sliver of orange light catching the flash of her teeth when she smiles.

When he fits in behind her, arms loose around her waist and chin nestled on her shoulder, Winter melts back into his chest with ease, this a natural part of her (theirs, he corrects himself) morning routine as washing her face or brewing the coffee she doesn’t even drink. Faustus slants his lips to her neck, inhales the clean scent of perfume ghosting her skin, and kisses her there.

His kiss is less hard pressure and more fleeting touch, but still Winter's skin blushes sweet and pleased. She sinks further into him, lets one hand fall from her mug to cover the hands he has clasped at her middle, and murmurs, "Good morning."

Faustus glances to their ill-used stove to find the time marked in red blocky numbers at six thirty-five.

Little less than half an hour before she leaves for work.

Never enough time for him to enjoy the quiet companionship of Winter at her most open before the rest of the day touches her, but half an hour is what he has. Quick to ensure he doesn’t waste a single moment, he gives her a gentle squeeze and returns his gaze to the window to share in their private reverie of the glittering dew refracting the first rays of light.