"Look," he begins awkwardly, "about today—or, fuck, I guess it was yesterday now—but anyway, about—"
I stop him by grabbing his wrist under the blankets. My other hand is pointing out at the horizon. "Look!"
He frowns and turns to follow my gaze.
"What are you—"
But he freezes when he sees it.
The sun has poked above the surface of the water. It's just a tiny sliver, but as soon as it's reared its head, the whole sky seems to sigh and give up its deepest blacks and purples.
We both sit in silence as it keeps prying open
the lid of the night to make room for morning. Gold, tangerine, flamingo—
it's unseasonably fiery. Casmire in February is usually a pure gray affair.
This is anything but that.
My hand stays clamped on his wrist. I don't dare let go.
The sun rises. We both breathe in sync. Slow inhale. Slower exhale.
Heated skin beneath my fingertips.
Fire in the sky, golden and gorgeous.
"Check," I murmur, more to myself than to him.
Andrew looks at me. "Check?"
