Hi, here I am with version number 20 of Sarah's prompt! lol I wasn't even going to do it, but I was reading a few poems and this one kind of got to me. Anyways, it's just something simple and quick but I hope you like it!
Thanks to Amanda for putting up with my whining, always.
Harvey opens his eyes to morning lights and groans, burrowing his face on the duvet. From his side he hears a chuckle, and throws his arm to whatever direction he thinks Donna is.
He figures his movements are still way too slow, because she's not even in bed. He opens one eye and watches her leaving the bedroom, mutters something unintelligible even to him. He sighs and closes his eyes again, feeling himself slipping deeper into slumber again when a sound startles him.
With some difficulty he opens his eyes again and there Donna was, wearing his shirt from the night before, rearranging herself carefully with a book in her lap and a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. She blows on some of the steam, takes a sip and opens her book.
He watches her for a moment. Hair mussed from sleep and, he's sure, from her fingers when she tried to give it some semblance of order when she got up. She put it all over one shoulder, so he can see the small bruise his lips left on the side of her neck last night; she probably doesn't know yet or she would already be trying to make it disappear. Her eyes still have some traces of sleep, though he knows it's futile for her to try falling asleep again once she's up.
Despite the curtains, there are still some lights coming in and he can see the freckles on her neck, disappearing underneath the shirt on her shoulders, her chest, and he smiles remembering how he always makes sure to kiss as many of them as he can.
"Your coffee is getting cold," she mumbles, drinking some more of her own. He chuckles and sits up, yawning, muttering a good morning as he takes his own cup of coffee. He keeps watching her, feeling more awake by the minute.
"What are you reading?" Donna brings the book cover up to his eye level instead of replying, a book by Mary Oliver. "Poetry?" She hums.
"Are you gonna recite some to me?"
He caresses her thigh under the duvet, purposefully distracting, and she glares at him playfully. He knows even when they don't have to work, she's up early; she likes to have a quiet morning with her books and coffee. He feels a little bad for interrupting her time, but she can't blame him for wanting to have a slow morning filled with cuddles and hushed tones.
And he also knows that if she did not want to get interrupted, she'd go to their balcony to bask in the sun.
She closes the book and puts in on her nightstand, her almost empty coffee cup on top of it, and turns to him.
"How do I love you?" she starts, approaching him to sit on his lap, soft eyes and voice hoarse from sleep. "Oh, this way and that way. Oh, happily."
His hands take their usual place on her waist and she bites her lip, the way she usually does when she's thinking, which makes him think of her as cute rather than seductive. She brings her right hand to his face, caressing his cheek, his moles, his eyebrow. He watches her eyes examining every inch of his face, memorizing, if she's afraid if she blinks, he'll be out of her sight.
"Perhaps I may elaborate by demonstration?" She smiles cheekily, the hand that is still traveling around his face taking place on the nape of his neck, and he feels her hot breath on his ear. "Like this," she brushes her lips below his ear, her hand leaving his neck though not entirely, as he feels the tip of her fingers softly running through his hair.
"And like this," and she kisses his temple, his cheek, brushing her nose with his, and her lips finally, finally brushing his, and he wants to keep his eyes open but it's too much for him.
"And—" she whispers so softly, so close to his lips he feels her words more than hears, "—no more words now." Her lips finally fully touch his, softly, and he sighs as if it's the first or second time they're doing that. He loves kissing her, loves the way his hands clench on her waist and she brings herself impossibly closer, loves how warm and soft she feels, loves how her hands are still caressing his hair, as she always does.
It shouldn't be a novelty anymore, they've been together for a while, but it doesn't stop his heart from beating a little faster when it hits him that's his life now. He gets to cook her dinner in the evenings, and gets to joke as she makes their dessert, telling her it should have some whipped cream. He gets to taste whatever concoction she's trying when she's in the mood to fix them drinks, and he gets to sway with her in their living room to the smooth notes of his father's music. He gets to make her laugh so hard until she cries when they're messing around reenacting scenes from their favorite movies.
He gets to lie in bed and drink coffee by her side in the morning, sheets and legs and hearts tangled, and they talk and laugh and kiss as much as they want.
He gets to love her for the rest of his life.