l'entremet, a modern, multi-layered french mousse cake, 'entre mets' meaning between courses. pronounced: lahn-truh-may.

DACQUOISE NOISETTE ⤷ Hazelnut Dacquoise: The Foundation

The crash in the alley was loud. A constant ring taking home in your ears as you lowered the half smoked cigarette in your hand, eyes darting in the dimly lit alley. You saw it then. A dark figure in the bruised indigo of the late night. Slumped sideways on the garbage bags.

Curiosity killed the cat, and you were sure it might end you one day too. You took a few cautious steps towards him, your foot disturbing the serene reflection of the moon in the puddle of water. A wet feeling in your shoe. Fuck, you need shoes without holes.

"Dude, who the fuck are you?"

You were answered with heaving breaths — they sounded louder in the quiet of the night. You licked your lip in contemplation, pausing a few feet away from the dark figure.

You could either be normal, call the cops, and leave the guy be. Or…

"Listen, man, I've had a shit day," you started, throwing your half smoked cig down, putting it out before taking another step closer, "and I wanna warn you, do not try anything with me, I have a pepper spray and karate lessons from like sixth grade, and a hell lot of frustration about my shop closing. I will fuck you up."

To your offense the man laughed — well, kind of, — the laugh turned into a sputtered breath and a pained groan soon enough. Wow, this guy is fucking weird. And hurt.

You bit back the gasp that threatened to punch out of you at the sight of him. He laid there, half leaned on the black bags of trash as if they were his personal throw pillows. Clad in black head to toe, a black cloth covering half his face. Cuts decorated his body, the dark red of his blood melting into the blackness surrounding him.

Your brain scrambled to think of where you might know him from—

"The devil of Hell's Kitchen."

Your hand sprung up to slap itself over your mouth as if you could physically take back the words from the air and shove them into your throat.

The man's head tilted towards you once again a pained grimace spilling across his pink lips. "I won't hurt you, I promise."

The words were whispered into the night, echoing around the abandoned alley. His voice was textured — rough and soft all the same.

"Yeah, well you can't even if you wanted to, devil-man," your words were muffled behind your hand. Sometimes you really did wish you could shut yourself up. You let out a sigh, lowering your hand to your side. Not like it stopped you from saying shit you didn't want to.

He let out another one of those weird laugh-groan things, shifting with great effort to sit up more. You bit your lip, shoe scuffing the ground as you looked down at him. He did promise he wouldn't hurt you. Clearly, he was going to bleed out if you leave him here.

"You need help, devil man?"

"No, I think—" he was cut off by his own groan of pain, somehow trying to stand up before swaying and—

"Woah there!"

Your arms wrap around him in an instant, though the position is a bit awkward you try to maneuver some of his weight onto yourself, helping him stand up. He was warm and heavy against you. Bloody clothes and heaving breaths.

By the time you manage to wrap his big arm around your shoulder, helping him lean on you, the

"You were saying, devil man?" you teased in between huffed breaths.

He just grinned, the corners of his mouth shaky as his head leaned down, finally conceding.

— The repetitive motions of whipping the egg whites and sugar into a meringue lulled your mind into a weirdly calm place. Nothing else existed at this very moment in time. Just you and the tap-tap of the whisk. A metronome to your, for once, stilled thoughts.

knock. knock knock. knock.

The whisk slipped from your hands with all the grace of a fish swimming on land. You let out an indignant huff, hand coming to tap your chest as if trying to get your heartbeat back into it's usual rhythm through sheer will.

"Jesus! Devil man," you mutter, stomping towards the window, unlocking it and stepping aside to let his broad frame in, "you gotta stop with the creepy knocking, man. I could've fucked up the L'entremet. Again."

You'd stuck with the nickname even though you know his name now. Matthew Michael Murdock. Daredevil. One and the same. Or simply (and less dramatically) put Matt.

He sauntered into the kitchen with a soft hum of acknowledgement, making a quick work of his make shift black mask, leaving his hair a puffy mess in its wake. You hated how unbearably soft the sight made you. Him walking around in the warm kitchen lights of your cramped apartment. Hair messy, and eyes glinting. He looked as if he belonged here… or maybe somewhere far away from here.

"You're making it again?" he questioned between greedy gulps of water from the glass you'd kept ready for him before re-starting on your baking rendezvous, "There is already one on the rack."

"Well, yeah," you huff out, walking back towards the kitchen counter, hand fiddling with the whisk, nervous suddenly, "it's not perfect yet, I'd hoped I could do it before y'know — the place closes down tomorrow. But I guess not."

Matt walked towards it. An inquisitive look on his face as he stood in front of your previous failed attempt.

"The hazelnut base is too soft, and the meyer lemon curd is too… acidic? citrus-y," you supplied as he picked up the fork nearby on the counter. Watching anxiously as he cut himself a bite, calloused hands smoothly shoveling a bite up before he shoveled it into his mouth.

"So, what do you think, devil man?"

"It is… perfect. The softness of the base goes well with the crunch of the — what is it? crepes?"

You let out a hum, "French crepes and hazelnut praline paste."

"Yeah, that," he chewed thoughtfully before nodding to himself, "the lemon curd goes well with the rest of the things too, 's not too acidic if that's what you're thinking. You're worryin' for nothing."

You're not entirely convinced. You know that the guy has enhanced senses and yet your foolish brain refuses to believe him. Regardless, your heart still preens at the praise he showers you with, shoulders relaxing just a bit as you leaned back against the counter. The silence feels nice. So you decide to break it.

"You gonna need any stitching up tonight, Matty, or just popped in to steal some desserts?"

"Can't it be both, sweetheart?"

The warmth in your heart — you convince yourself — is from the baking and not him.

CROUSTILLANT PRALINÉ ⤷ Crunchy Praline: The Friction

The bluesy song playing on the speakers at Josie's made your head thrum as if the notes were bouncing around in your fuzzy mind.

The cheap beer was good enough to have you tipsy. Fuzzy brain and warm body.

You'd taken to watching Matt and a lady from the bar — Samantha? — play pool, all wide grins and murmured nonsense. Foggy had retired next to you a while back, claiming to be 'tired of beating Murdock's ass at this'. Karen had followed after him chuckling as her blue eyes glowed in the cheap bar lights.

Your finger followed the path of the condensation droplets on your beer bottle.

"So, how's the search for the new job going?"

The question from Karen seemed to snap you back to the present, eyes darting to Foggy, Karen and then back to your bottle. The answer is loose on your tongue, the beginning of an I don't know, swirls around your mouth. Pungent and bitter in its wake.

Your reply is cut off at the I part of the statement by Matt coming back to the table. Seeing his hand around her waist — Emma? — before was a nice distraction from your melancholy and numbness — a slow burn in your chest, a stinging behind eyes, and green thoughts in your mind. Jealousy.

He picks up his coat with a grin. You don't quiet hear the teasing he's subjected to by Karen and Foggy. Your eyes focused on his rapidly reddening cheeks, and shit-eating grin. The snap of his cane, and the flourish of his coat. Soon enough he's sending a nod your way and passing a pat on your shoulder before tap-taping away to her. Apparently he'd decided to be gentlemanly tonight — choosing to 'drop her off safely' to her place.

She's pretty. You have to admit that. Green eyes glinting like emeralds in the lazy light, hair perfectly falling down her shoulders in a beautiful cascade, outfit just the perfect amount of casual and formal, and a smile so beautiful it managed to steal the air from your lungs. She seemed smart too. And she must be, you think bitterly.

You try not to imagine it — him with her. How she'd maybe invite him up, a soft grin on her pretty lips. And he'd chuckle, maybe even hesitate before he'd accept it. How he'd kiss her, warm, calloused hands around her waist, maybe even on her jaw — pulling her closer to him and kissing her deeper.

You blink back your bitter tears, taking another sip of your now warmer beer. Listening to the ebbing and flowing conversation between Foggy and Karen about some bakery they adore, how they could help hook you up there. You thank them for it and get another drink. And another. And another. And well, one more doesn't hurt.

Later that night, you remember hugging Karen bye a little too tight.

You also remember the worried glance her and Foggy shared as they insisted to get you a cab home.

You also remember sitting at your own doorstep and crying like a kid, eyes staring at the window on the opposite end of the hallway, as if some part of you was still waiting for Matt — your devil-man — to come climbing through it.

You also remember the confusion you felt waking up the next morning in your bed with a splitting headache, and tucked in. A glass of water, and pain meds on your bedside, with a hand written note that stood out to you most.

'Take Care, Sweetheart."

Wonky letters and shaky, unsure handwriting. Matt.

—

The rain continued thundering as you rushed into the building. The warmth of the place seemed to envelope your cold, and shaking body. The sound of the thunder and taps of the rain muffled through the walls.

You couldn't help but rush up the stairs, searching for the familiar sign of 'Nelson, Murdock, and Page: Attorneys at Law.'

"She's here!"

Foggy's voice echoed as he rushed up to you, taking the box of baked goodies from your hands as you tried to catch your breath, shrugging off your soaked coats in a rush.

'Oh my god!' you hear Karen exclaim, a thud, and the quick clicks of Karen's kitten heels as she rushed out of the meeting room, Matt following after her in a hurry that matches her.

"How'd it go?" Matt seems to be much calmer in his tone than his partners, though you know him well enough that you can tell he's just as excited, hand shaking slightly around his cane as he clenches and unclenches his jaw, a barely there grin on his lips. And you just know he knows. He always knows.

You swallow back the sudden emotion pushing through the adrenaline rush you'd gotten hurrying here through the rain. Your breaths hitch through your chest, heart refusing to come down from the high of the news.

"I got it," you whisper, barely audible to your own self, eyes staring at all of them, and somehow through them. Head here and everywhere.

And then as suddenly as you'd flown off, just as soon as you're crumbling down, and Matt is somehow right there. Like he always is. Warmth seemed to envelope your cold bones as Matt hugs you to him, unfreezing the numbness you'd surrounded yourself with the past few months after the restaurant you'd worked at basically your whole adult life was closed, leaving you unsure and terrified for the first time. The good and the bad of that old place mixing in your chest till it all turned black. The bad reviews and the good ones. The yelling and the peace. All of it swirling and melting into one big black hole in your being.

"I got the job," you repeat, stronger this time, words muffled against his neck — smelling of cinnamon and cool nights.

You can vaguely make out Foggy and Karen screaming at that, as they hug each other. All of it feels as you were witnessing it from underwater. All you could really feel was him. Matt.

CRÉMEUX AU CITRON ⤷ Meyer Lemon Curd: The Heart

Matt knew that there were only two times in your life where you'd ever considered never baking again. First, when you'd almost lost your mother to a car accident right after a big argument over your career, and second, when you'd gotten your first bad review while working at your old place. You hated to admit how bad it had actually affected you. The words 'There was no art, no thought, no emotion behind the dessert. A pathetic, monotonous attempt at a dessert which works on the symphony of textures,' had bounced around your head every time you even touched the thought of baking.

And these — confessions of sort, had seemed to come out easier for you that night on the roof with him — hazy and warm next to him, the smell of those awful nicotine gums you were chewing a while back still on your breath. He could also smell the thick scent of petrichor and flowers around you, the scent of fancy baking things he could barely remember the names of — though he's sure you've told them all before on the late nights he's spent at yours — the scent of it is addicting, sweet. You.

In turn, he'd tried to think of something to tell you. Maybe about the many times he'd tried to quit being the lawyer, or being the vigilante. Maybe about the few too many times he'd wanted to — tried to — quit being all together. Parts of himself he refused to accept. Parts of himself he had accepted. All mixing together to form him. Would you want this? Him?

It'd have been so easy, just to spill it all out. Keep it all in the open for you to see. And, he thinks, a part of him knows you'd accept it all far too easily. So he doesn't say it at all. Because you know. And he knows.

He had instead somehow found himself talking about his father — those late nights spent patching him up with shaking hands and bit back groans, the lazy Sundays spent with him doing homework and watching trash TV with his dad, the disgusting but full of heart chocolate cakes on birthdays that always made growing up feel better somehow. Then about Foggy and the Columbia days — the drunken laughter and half finished assignments, the 'Avocados at Law' and the half finished internship at Landman and Zack.

It'd all spilled out in a velvet soft touch of your hand to his. Somehow the grief in him balanced by the love in you. Existing. Together. In all of it.

He'd tilted his head, chasing the warmth of you, head poised to 'look' at you. He could hear the wind twisting and playing with your hair. He could feel the heat of the blood rushing to your cheeks as he tilted to face you. His lips a breath away from yours — God, he could almost taste it — the cocoa lip balm, and the cheap nicotine gum.

Thudthud - Thudthud.

Your heartbeat fastening as his hand came up to rest on your pulse. Warm, and sweet under his touch. He'd felt it then, your gaze heavy on his lips, your own hands clenching and unclenching on your sides.

"Matt," you'd whispered then, one of your hands coming to rest on his heart — and then he knew. He knew again. That he l—

"I- I don't think this is…"

You'd trailed off then, and he'd smelled then the salt of your tears, your hand fisting his shirt under your grasp. Somehow both pushing him away and pulling him back in.

Yet again he's stuck in the in between. But at least he's with you this time.

That night he walked you home, and hugged you bye. Like always.

—

"Hello?"

You knew it was wrong before you'd even done it. Matt had forgotten his phone before he'd left with Foggy and Karen for court. You'd reassured Karen you would cover for them — it was your rare day off anyway, not like you'd got anything going on. And you'd seen his phone then, but it'd already been a while since the trio had left. You couldn't catch up to them now without leaving the office for too long. So you'd decided it was not that bad, that you'd texted Karen about it already so it was fine.

"Hi? Who is this?" The voice from the other end was feminine, and gentle. It was that girl — Alexa? — from that night at Josie's. Your heart lurched at the thought of Matt still being in contact with her. Why did he even try to kiss you then?

You mechanically muttered your name, hearing her light up as she said something about remembering you from that night.

"Yeah, yeah," you responded, "so uhh…" Fuck, you don't remember her name.

"Matt forgot his phone at the office, I can give him a message for you if you want," you opted to say instead.

"Oh no, that's okay! Could you maybe ask him to call me back soon?"

"Yeah, sure, yeah, of course."

"Great! Thank you so mu—"

BEEP

…

They'd gotten a bit held up in traffic. Matt knew it was rather childish of him — being so excited to share the win with you, wanting to tell you everything that happened in court as if he were a kid winning his first match at little league. But a part of him couldn't care of how insanely naive he'd look in front of you then. He just wanted to tell you all of it.

What he was greeted with instead was you rushing off with excuses which was sure all of them could tell were lies. The scent of your tears thick in the air. He couldn't help but rush after you, hand darting out to catch your wrist in the hallway outside of the office.

"Sweetheart, what—"

"Nothing, you girlfriend called and asked you to call her ba—"

"Wait, what? Girlfriend?"

The look of total bafflement on his face made you pause, licking your lips in contemplation. He looked panicked, brows drawn together, red lenses glinting under the dingy hallway lights, lips pulled into a frown. Those cute forehead crinkles making their presence known at his stressed face.

"The girl from the bar — Lacy? — I'm not sure, she uhm…" your eyes filled once again, and you couldn't help but chastise yourself for this childish behavior, what was this high school? What the fuck were you even doing?

"She what, sweetheart?" His voice is as warm as his hands which snap his cane shut, curling around your wrists, tracing mindless patterns inside.

"She called you, and uh she asked you to call her back," you blinked back your tears, trying to loosen his hold on your arms.

"Okay, and?"

"Well, aren't you dating her then? If you're still in contact with her," you whisper the words as if they wouldn't be true if you made sure to speak in a low voice.

The confusion just seemed to etch deeper into his face with that, "What? Is that why you're so upset, sweetheart?"

The question is gentle, like him. One of his hands hesitantly reaching to cup your face as he gulps.

"She's… Sweetheart— she's nothing, I mean I haven't even talked to her since walking her home that night—"

"Does she know that, Matt? She… She called you and talked so confidently to me as if it were nothing, like she'd done this a million times before with you," you murmur, face screwing up as you look down at his calloused hand holding your wrist.

"Yes," he murmurs, trying to match the quietness of your voice, hand snaking further down your wrist, gently prying your fist open before intertwining your hands, "nothing happened between us that night, and nothing will ever happen between me and her… I don't— don't like her that way."

"You don't?" you ask, suddenly turning shy, leaning into his warmth now.

"I don't, sweetheart," he echoes, a small smile on his lips now as he squeezes your hand affectionately, "but you know what?"

"What?" you echo back, turning to finally look up at him properly, heart thudding expectantly in your chest again, as if it were trying to break free and rush back to him.

"I like you that way," he murmurs this lowly, face close to yours — enough that he nuzzles your nose gently, enough that you can smell the strong coffee on his breath and the scent of cinnamon that seemed to always follow him.

An apprehensive smile spreads across your lips at that, "Yeah?"

"Yeah, sweetheart," he answers, voice earnest in a way that it rarely ever was.

"Good," you whisper, hand finally curling back around his, pressing your lips to his cheek in a chaste kiss before pulling away just a bit. If it was even possible, his grin turned even more fond than it was before.

That night he walked you home, and hugged you bye. Like always.

Just this time, you both planned a date before he left.

MOUSSE À L'EARL GREY ⤷ Earl Grey Mousse: The Body

Matt wasn't used to this. 'This' being sitting in a bathtub under a shower with someone after having sex.

When you'd said you wanted to take a shower afterwards it was as if it were implied he'd be joining you in there, as if it were just normal, everyday routine. Usually, with the other women he'd slept with, he would just get along with his things and leave, or maybe just fall asleep after helping the woman clean up and cleaning up himself.

There was no reason to stick around. To share nonsensical domestic moments that meant nothing.

So, right now as he sits in the bathtub while lukewarm water falls down on the both of you, he doesn't particularly want to like it. He doesn't want to like this feeling of you in his arms in this cold porcelain tub, the scent of your shampoo strong enough, on him, around him, that he's sure it'll stick to him for days. But it's nicer than he thought it would be. He can't help but think it's nice because of you.

"Matty, tilt your head down?" It's more an order than question. Your voice sounds different under the spray of the water. Acoustics or whatever.

He complies, eyes fluttering shut as he tilts his head down. He can feel your sudsy fingers work their way in his hair and scalp, and then backwards to his neck. You're humming something, heartbeat steady, and muscles relaxed as you focus on his hair as if you were creating a masterpiece — or baking something you love. It's domestic. And new. And, he thinks he might be a little bit in love with you.

His bones felt dense as his head tilted further down, he was aware of it, but he couldn't stop it. Head coming to rest against your shoulder as your fingers worked in the shampoo, he tilted his head just a bit taking in the scent of you, nosing at your neck. He could hear your heart speed up just a bit at the kisses he left in his wake, his warm breath against your pulse, soft lips pressed into vulnerable skin.

That's when you let out a huff of a laugh, shifting to let him press himself further into your arms. A looseness in his movements he was unfamiliar with — yet appreciated it. The calm you seemed to stamp into his being by just existing with him. The peace you brought to his life, one eternally stuck in the in betweens of existence. And, he knows it's possible he might be a lot in love with you.

The shower washes off the shampoo you'd put in his hair. And he's suddenly taken by this itch —- this urge, really — to do something for you. Maybe he could wash your hair, use all these fancy products you love, or maybe he could wash your body. Perhaps he would be far too clumsy with someone as gentle as you. So instead he could go back down and kiss you up between your thighs, you seemed to like it before — calling out his name as if it were the only name in the world worth something. He loves how you'd said his name, so sweet and airy. He felt unworthy of even his name in that moment, how could it be said so… so lovingly? A name that belonged to him called out with such strong affection?

Because he's too chicken shit to actually say it, he just pulls you closer instead, under the flow of the water, lips slotting sweetly against yours. You seem to be surprised before melting into him, hands twined in his hair still. He presses the words into your mouth, hoping they're half worthy of you. But somehow, he knows you know. Because when you pull away you giggle, the sound muffled into his skin, sticky sweet. He can't help but smile too — he feels his cupids bow stretch, the dimple he's been told he has somehow taking home right under your lips.

He'd felt it then your hands rubbing his neck, cupping his jaw to turn him up before kissing him again. Sticky sweet like your voice, like the desserts you bake late at night, like your cocoa lip gloss.

"I love you," he can't help but spill his secret out between kisses, you somehow always coax it all out anyway.

"I love you, too," you answer back, before pressing your smiling lips to his.

He doesn't need to hear your heartbeat this time to know it's true.

—

The first time Matt visited the new restaurant you were working at with Foggy and Karen, he was surprised.

The place was extravagant, with waiters who somehow knew every good thing that had happened to you, food that had fancy name and fancier plating, and apparently, from what he heard, decorations worth more than his entire savings account.

The dessert though — it was all you, he knew it was. The same sweetness you'd seem to mix into every thing you touched was prominent in it. Warm and homey.

After the service was over, he'd found you at the back door. You were having a panic attack.

Your hands wouldn't stop shaking, as you tried to press yourself further back into the brick wall behind you, somehow resisting the urge to bash your head into it. It was as though your body and soul were trying to separate — trying to break down the delicate muscles and tendons that held you together.

That's when warm hands took your shaking ones, and you looked away from him like a scolded child. It was pathetic, really. You'd had worse services in your life — filled with screaming chefs, and buzzing timers. But tonight… tonight had been much more of a shit show, you'd been asked to make l'entremet for a special guest as a gift. It'd been her, the reviewer from all those years ago. Your body, as silly as it was, couldn't decipher the difference between being hunted for sport and between a reviewer from ages ago trying your desserts again. She'd loved it apparently. And yet… here you were again.

"Sweetheart."

Matt's voice is a rumble against your chest as he pulls you into him. Warm hand splayed across your shoulders as he rubbed absent minded circles there. Your hands trembled where they rested loosely around his waist.

"Jesus, you're still shaking, honey," he pulled away once again to guide your hands back into his, asking you the routine of stating five things you could see, four things you could feel, three things you could hear, two things you could smell, one thing you could taste.

It helped enough that you felt the panic leave — as if it were draining out of your body, leaving you dry, and hollow.

"I'm okay now," you murmur half heartedly, making no move to loosen your grip on his hands.

"No, you're not, sweetheart," he quipped gently, a soft smile bordering on sympathetic, but instead of pressing on it he chose instead to pull you further into his arms, pressing kisses on your head, the smell of cinnamon on his coat was nice, burying your face in it felt nicer, somehow. As if for these few moments the world is pushed away, the only sounds being Matt's heartbeat, and the scratch of his coat against your ear.

With his heart under your ear, and his arms around yours. You let go.

GLAÇAGE MIROIR ⤷ Lavender Mirror Glaze: The Veil

Matt is almost sure he'll die before you do.

Matt thinks you know, too, deep down — you, who's always beautiful and hurting, sweet and bitter, all in one go — you must know, didn't you?

Those late nights he spends curled up around your body, warm body entangled with yours. Bound, yours forever. Forever. It seemed to be such a long time just a few years back. But now as he feels his heartbeat sync up to yours, the feeling of your loose cotton tee under his fingertips, the feeling of your skin so gentle under his callouses. How could any amount of time ever be enough?

It's scary to him. How contagious and hemorrhagic your love is. How faithful and deep it is to a fault. It scares him most times how utterly forgiving you are, holding him up over and over, absolving him with a touch of your hand. No matter the crime, no matter the sin. You guide him back to goodness regardless.

The sticky sweetness in you dissolved into him, and he takes it all greedily. The string of loneliness running through him — the one that burns his soft flesh from the inside — the sting eases just enough. Enough for him to let go of his ache, of his burns and bruises.

In the beginning he'd tried to give you something or the other in turn of this… this kindness you were giving to him so freely. Something perfect in order to make up for the fact it was coming from him, to prove that he too, was worthy of your kindness — of your forgiveness. He often wonders if he succeeded. Part of him thinks he must have because how else was he allowed to keep you here, right next to him. Heartbeats syncing, breaths slowing.

But at the end of it all. All the thoughts, the feelings, the questions pass. And he always ends up right where he started anyway. With you. Always you.

—

You try to be a restrained person.

Otherwise you were sure your heart would race right out of your chest. Breaking past the human, physical barriers of a tender, broken body; spilling into everything you touch with affection — the things you bake, the people you love, the shows you feel with, the songs that soundtrack you, the movies you experience through, the books that break you down and build you up over again, it'd all have a piece of your heart in it then.

Yet, Matt somehow nudges past it all, opening up your chest like an open wound — the vulnerability of it all painfully embarrassing. You'd been taught as a young chef that cooking is art too — self expression, and love, — it too, holds the power of taking a piece of you and sending it along through the food… Through the art.

Yet it'd never managed to make you feel as open as it had with Matt. It was as if he'd chosen to feel, hear, see, all these parts of yourself — some you'd been too ashamed to weave through your food, your art, some you'd been too proud to open and show to others. But somehow, through all of it, he reached over and over again for you. These parts of yourself you marked off as unlovable, he somehow loved more than he did himself.

Those early mornings you spend, tangled up with him under the sleep, and sun warmed sheets all you can think of is wanting this — him — forever.

Forever, something you'd found so baffling as a kid, something you'd found so utterly insane to even think of — suddenly seemed to normal, so easy to desire, with him.

All you want is these lazy mornings. Where he wakes up cozied next to you, and murmurs something about not wanting to leave the bed just yet. Where you look at him, beautiful and good, with a halo of his curls spread out like feathers, and rosy lips pulled into a barely there smile, eyes fluttering, and senses loosened. Where you drink coffee together, barely awake but here all the same.

You want it all. With him. Always him.

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