He wonders idly, what he should name this feeling.
This feeling he has when she’s with him. A strange sort of contentment. The warmth of a quiet blanket that drapes gossamer folds over them. A silence that holds forevers of words. The want to smile for no reason.
He would never call it love. Never. Love wasn’t for people like them. They were too different. He was the edge piece of a puzzle and she was in the center; they were never meant to be. But someone thought it would be funny to shave off her protruding bits and shove her into an awkward fit with him. He doesn’t know whether to shoot them or thank them.
He doesn’t understand it. But he doesn’t mind his ignorance. After all she’s in his arms now and her ear is just where he always imagined it would rest. Her hands on his waist are precisely where he thought they would be.
They had touched once before, during a fight while she was trying to scratch his eyes out. Her hand had found his and it had been a jolt of sensation. Her hand felt good in his; the soft parts, not the sharp one with the fingernails that dug crescents into the spaces between his fingers.
He had known then that the next time they touched it would be explosive.
And it is.
A leisurely burst of heat and color that leeches into his bones and everything around him, painting his world in vivids.
A supernova in slow-motion.
She feels small and fragile and loveable right now. Not at all like the demon cat she that he knows she is.
“I can hear you think. Shut up already.”
She’s looking up at him, peeved and somewhat sleepy eyed.
“Sorry that my brain can’t catch up with the pace at which your moods swing…”
It takes a second for her to shrug his away and don her trademark scowl threateningly.
It doesn’t take him a second to see the vulnerability hidden under it.
So he pulls her back to him; because she’s his, sharp fingernails and all.
He doesn’t need to name it.
Because this isn’t a writing on a wall.
They can make it whatever they want it to be.
As long as she’s with him under this silent gossamer cloud-shadow of a blanket, in their world, where names have no meaning.
