maybe (not)
She isn’t expecting him to still be in bed by the time she gets up, which is absurd, really, considering they’re at his flat. They aren’t cuddled up next to each other like one would expect, especially between the two of them, where the tension and affection has been public and palpable — unresolved and unabashed — for months.
A million half-thoughts run through her sleep-muddled mind— is she comfortable? Does she regret it? Does he regret it? —but all that she knows is maybe.
Maybe this can be the first of many mornings spent together. Maybe this doesn’t need to be a one-off. Maybe they can finally put the past behind them, and start a future together.
Maybe she should admit she’s fallen in love with him.
A low groan, followed by the rustling of sheets removes her from her thoughts, but the maybes continue.
Maybe she should leave. Maybe she could leave a note with some tea, and make a strategic retreat while simultaneously managing to leave the door open for any future romantic encounters. Maybe she should put a shirt on, at the very least. Maybe she should—
He’s facing her now, and his left arm is angled towards her. The morning light, peering through the windows of his uncharacteristically cheerful bedroom, reveals that his glamour charm has faded. The charm he uses to hide from the hatred, the lies, the shame of his past mistakes and bigotry. The charm she expected him to use, even with her. Even though she forgives him, trusts him, loves him, wholeheartedly.
With him, she’s learned that expectations are very different from reality. And so, just like she never expected to be friendly with him, let alone fall for him, she wasn’t expecting there to be scars on his shoulder. She wasn’t prepared for him to have freckles, ones that are few and far between, making little constellations up and down the length of his arm. As he shifts again, reaching for her, presumably, she smiles, before she realizes there was something else rather unexpected about his early morning appearance. Something else on his left arm that he was hiding from the world; hiding from her. Something on his hand, thin and gold, adorning his fourth finger, and her blood runs cold at the sight of it.
Her head clears.
And all her mind can tell her is maybe not.