( There is a weighted tug that pulls at the edges of his peripheral, guiding the lingering line of his gaze toward where he knows that he'll find her lying like an illusion, some play of the imagination, in the indentation that his own body hasn't left across the narrow slant of the mattress. The warmth of her floods the boundaries of his perception, the same way that the weird and heavy weight of humidity had settled over him that time he had found moisture pressed into the lines of his gloves. He knows that she's there without having to even turn and check for himself, and there is something both comforting and nerve-wracking about that knowledge, like keeping a secret he knows he should tell or tempting himself with a reward he knows he doesn't deserve.
He should stand, despite reaching out to her in some capacity in the first place. He should walk away, despite doing his part to close the distance between them whether by feet or parsecs, whether by physicality alone or through whatever strange bridge still connects them through the Force. If anything, he should remain seated just the way that he is, facing away, if only because he knows what's under the drape of that blanket. Still, there is only so much self-control in the galaxy. )
No answer? ( He can see her plainly when he turns to look at her, just the sharp line of his eye at first and then the entirety of his shoulders to follow as he turns, one hand plunged precariously next to her in the sheets but not touching. The fragility of the line that stretches between them, like a thread of woven, brittle glass, doesn't escape him, both in the physical sense and in terms of how her mood and attitude toward him might impact it.
The corner of his mouth quirks, definitely not a smile but not lacking in some degree of familiarity either, almost bordering on affection. ) That's highly unlike you.
lights an xmas fire with this wine
He should stand, despite reaching out to her in some capacity in the first place. He should walk away, despite doing his part to close the distance between them whether by feet or parsecs, whether by physicality alone or through whatever strange bridge still connects them through the Force. If anything, he should remain seated just the way that he is, facing away, if only because he knows what's under the drape of that blanket. Still, there is only so much self-control in the galaxy. )
No answer? ( He can see her plainly when he turns to look at her, just the sharp line of his eye at first and then the entirety of his shoulders to follow as he turns, one hand plunged precariously next to her in the sheets but not touching. The fragility of the line that stretches between them, like a thread of woven, brittle glass, doesn't escape him, both in the physical sense and in terms of how her mood and attitude toward him might impact it.
The corner of his mouth quirks, definitely not a smile but not lacking in some degree of familiarity either, almost bordering on affection. ) That's highly unlike you.