[He didn't have words either, when Sturmhond gave this place to him.
He hasn't had words for awhile, for the kindness Kenzi has shown him. Her generosity in spirit, in bed, with her kisses and her stories. He still doesn't have them. He's always liked reading-- a gift that Cassidy gave him, but knowing the painful complexities of one's own heart turns in a completely different universe, for him. He looks at her now, and his heart shifts in his chest. He can feel it. It's almost painful. He closes his hands around her heart-shaped face, and wishes that he could touch her pale skin and dark hair somehow reach into the mysterious sea of her thoughts, like the so-called God's fingers of sunlight array through the latticed surface of the ocean. It would be a fine thing, wouldn't it? To know and be known completely.
But this is a close second. As close to perfect as he knows to be, just yet. He stoops down, his braid swinging against her jaw, a featherweight pendulum that's familiar to her by now. He kisses her, thoroughly, his mouth interlocking with the soft and perfect shape of her painted lips. When he grew up poor in Bristol, the ugly city and its hard winters, he thought the countryside meant rich food, live parents, and drinking from flowers. This is almost like that. The last part, anyway.
He straightens again, relaxing his fingers from around her dainty chin. Setting her hair back even around her shoulders.] Happy Valentine's Day, Kenzi. I'm glad to bewilder you. And better yet, to know you.
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He hasn't had words for awhile, for the kindness Kenzi has shown him. Her generosity in spirit, in bed, with her kisses and her stories. He still doesn't have them. He's always liked reading-- a gift that Cassidy gave him, but knowing the painful complexities of one's own heart turns in a completely different universe, for him. He looks at her now, and his heart shifts in his chest. He can feel it. It's almost painful. He closes his hands around her heart-shaped face, and wishes that he could touch her pale skin and dark hair somehow reach into the mysterious sea of her thoughts, like the so-called God's fingers of sunlight array through the latticed surface of the ocean. It would be a fine thing, wouldn't it? To know and be known completely.
But this is a close second. As close to perfect as he knows to be, just yet. He stoops down, his braid swinging against her jaw, a featherweight pendulum that's familiar to her by now. He kisses her, thoroughly, his mouth interlocking with the soft and perfect shape of her painted lips. When he grew up poor in Bristol, the ugly city and its hard winters, he thought the countryside meant rich food, live parents, and drinking from flowers. This is almost like that. The last part, anyway.
He straightens again, relaxing his fingers from around her dainty chin. Setting her hair back even around her shoulders.] Happy Valentine's Day, Kenzi. I'm glad to bewilder you. And better yet, to know you.