She liked to drive. More so than he did. But when sleep lay heavy on her eyes, and her head refused to cease its nod forward, he would take the wheels from her hands. Marching through soft protests with tender trickery, he would coax her stiff fingers to surrender their fight, and in return, she would accept the warmth of his chest as recompense when he carried her to the passenger side.

But today she drove, and as she drove, he rested his head against the window, a slight curve of his mouth signaling that he was listening. She, on the other hand, did not dwell on silence this evening. Her chatter was full of colors and nonsense, the kind of easy listening that warmed the pit of his stomach. Her laughter, sometimes like the tinkering of bells, other times like foghorns, incited either smiles or guffaws of his own. Hers was a voice that told stories both that weighed like iron and shackles, and stories that grew like ivy on castle hearts. 

His eyes traced the habitual shaking of her left leg, to the tapping indexes on the steering wheel. She wore a scarf today, her chin buried in the cashmere crochet he had so often walked by again and again, in meditation of whether she would like it or not. Her fingers held the promise of silver and gold, periodically adorned by gems that held his love like energy. His eyes crinkled in subtle gratitude as he continued to turn his head towards her, a smile on his lips mirroring the one she wore. 

“Love, are you listening?”

“I always listen.”

“Why are you smiling?”

“Because you’re smiling.”

Her eyes flickered to his before she cleared , unable to wipe the smile from . He knew her, he knew the right answers, and he knew truth and sincerity that could break iron shackles, and water the ivy on castle hearts. 

“Give me a hand?”

“What?”

“You’re tapping your fingers, which means your hands are cold. Give me one hand. I’ll warm the other when we get home.”

His hands, through practiced motions, rubbed whispers into her single one. His lips found the tips of her fingers before he laced them with his own, and snuck the entwined into his pocket. She drove on, one hand leading them home, the other already there. 

 

 

***

 

 

When he found her, she was cloaked in the stench of despair. Hands bloodied and broken knees sang of a chest torn open, and a heart that didn’t fit in its place. In her eyes swam an ocean of saltwater, releasing rivers down the mountains of her face. She was broken into questions that he could not answer. As her breath caught in , he felt his own stop. The meters between them felt like miles as his feet carried him to her ashes. He sighed a hurricane of relief at their warmth as he took a bloodied hand into his own, surprised to find a scalpel clutched between cold fingers. The scalpel that called its claim to the crevice on her chest glinting in the light of an invisible fire, painted red with the blood of a warrior gone barefoot, answering the call of its savage. 

Her heart lay beating in her other hand, blue with the whispers of hell. He could not tell if it was too big for the cavity from which it was cut, or too small. Just that he had come to love it, even when it succumbed to civil war, even when it lost. Wars are neither civil nor lost, and yet, even the canyons know the praises sung of victors. 

Sometimes, her darkness would win, drowning her in the wings of chaos and dust. Sometimes, her fight would win, consuming her in pheonix fire. Both ways she was lost to him on planes he had come to accept. Unless: he met her darkness with sighs of a new tomorrow made today, and a hand that offered the comfort of an anchor. 

His fingers tremble at her empty gaze as he reaches into her chest of swinging vines and dense canopies, hands scraping over jagged cliffs and the razor teeth guarding the cavity. There was no beat, but there remained yet the memory of rhythm, resounding in the build of her ribs. He retracts a hand steadied by the memory and looks down at the blue-black heart. 

She reaches it out to him, face bare, even when it’s rivers have carved canyons echoing in their remembrance. He shakes his head, aware of the role that he cannot play. 

“It stings.”

“I know.”

“Must I put it back?”

“No, love. But I beg you to.”

The spark of recognition in her eyes jumps down into the pulse in her hand. It does not cover the bruises, nor does it erase the depth of the blue. But the gold that fills the cracks returns to it the heat it had lost. 

Her hand plunges into her chest at the same time that she collapses into his arms, his lips meeting her forehead in gratitude and relief so deep it shakes his foundations. Her ocean fills the room with salt rain, speaking of earthquakes made of unanswered questions and the shrieks of women in labor, looking up with fearful eyes at a sky full of configurations and fate. 

His arms embrace a trembling frame strong enough to hold the stars and paint with them her own destinations. She leans into the embrace, burying her heavy head in the crook of a neck that offers mountain air. 

 

***

 

 

Her eyes close of their own accord as she rolls her neck, hands trying to massage the ever present knots from her shoulders. They are rebellious and steadfast in their presence, more a companion to her than her own eyesight. Her view of the world is compromised by lids being pulled down in memory of restless nights, uneven breaths, revolutions small in magnitude  and large in text, and often times, his name on her lips echoing her name on his.

She is a magnitude of temperatures in the pit of her stomach, sometimes reaching the fury of vesuvius, and sometimes trembling under its own ice age. But at his touch, both the grumbles of a volcano and the silence of ice caves sing in harmony, creating landscapes of gratitude and vision, an answer to its hunger. 

Though she does not despise the screen, her eyes find company in its contents more than the curves of his face. Eyes that capture fragments of light, crinkling at the corners, a smile that calms the stream of questions that leave her, a nose that buries itself in her hair, and cheeks that speak of winter at their door. 

She blinks. 

Once. 

Twice. 

And gives in to a yawn that stretches stiff joints, reaching her arms above her as if to touch the sky full of fate, in search for his hands. And then…

Pain. 

Phantom knives running down her calf, denying her confirmation by blood. A Face contorting in a grimace, a low moan of discomfort, and a moment of complete inelegance while repeatedly hitting her cramping calf is all it takes. He is there then, experienced fingers soothing the side of the muscle, a deep chuckle reverberating through a broad chest. She settles back into the seat, a pent up breath releasing a hurricane into the room. 

Or at least he feels a hurricane. The steady atmosphere and lack of flying papers tells him that it is only a hurricane in his heart that she has evoked. He watches her relax at his ministrations, sleepy eyes opening to look at him in naive gratitude. His breath catches, and his hands stop their actions at the first sign of a loosened muscle. 

“When’s the deadline?” he asks, setting her foot aside and sidling up to her on the small couch. His arms take their place around her shoulders and her head follows fit into the crook of his neck. 

“Tomorrow afternoon,” she whispers, already sliding the laptop away from her and turning around to inhale his scent. 

Home. 

Her arms curve around his neck as her lips meet the junction of his collar bone, repeatedly stamping a covenant. His hum of approval only leads to the grip around him tightening. 

“Why are you working so hard then? You have more than enough time.”

Her lips have moved north, lingering slightly at the curvature of his jaw, before reaching their destination. He drinks her in, hands on the small of her back, inhaling a scent of spices and clove. A small movement on her lap catches her attention and she ungracefully breaks the kiss with an audible pop, leaning over to grab the falling laptop, a soft, high pitched squeal escaping her. She puts a hand to her chest, breathing hard and leaning over her knees, she lets out a relieved sigh. He laughs, burying his face in her hair again. 

“This thing costs more than 600 servings of jajangmyeon...I’ll be damned before I let it break.”

“Sweetheart, how do you even…”

“Each serving costs about 3000 won, this hunk of metal costs roughly 1,800,000 won. Do the math, love.”

“How…”

This time, it is her lips that calm the stream of questions, turning up at the corners in unabashed bliss. When she pulls away, his eyes remain closed as he rests his forehead on hers. They say more than she can comprehend when they open, and she laughs, pecking his lips again before extracting herself from the tangle of limbs. 

Her eyes fall on a large coffee mug set on the desk beside the couch. His eyes follow her gaze and watch her face as she takes a long drink, suddenly jerking the cup away from . 

“How long have I been working?”

“Long enough to have me pulling my hair out in loneliness.”

Her eyes speak of her guilt as she moves to explain herself. Lips at her temple silence her again.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, sweetheart. It makes me happy to see you so immersed in what you love. I’ll wait. But meanwhile, let me warm that coffee up for you.” 

She stares at his back as he walks out of the room, blinking in a mixture of confusion and contentedness. When he returns, he settles into her side, a book clutched in his hand. She accepts the now hot drink when he offers it to her, humming in satisfaction at the comforting warmth that pools in her stomach. 

“It’s hot.” 

He snorts, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. 

“Like me.” 

“Please.” She waits until they have settled into the couch more, him having gotten a few pages into his book. She leans her face into his neck once again, planting a kiss there. “You’re hotter.”

 

 

***

 

 

For one new to the city, she still missed the echos of home. Sounds and smells had taken on a new identity, the sheets of her bed felt different, and when she sunk into a newly bought couch, a steady arm around her shoulder, she could not help but remember the textures back home. No, this was not her city. It was not her country. But home, had come to take on a different definition. 

If she closed her eyes, she could hear the steady passing of traffic nearby, too close to their house for her liking. 

Sowed in one country, planted in another, and allowed to blossom in one she barely knew yet, had a bittersweet taste. Just like the coffee he would make. It would come packaged in crisp paper, the tearing of which left a clean silence after an elongated buzz, and spoke with the smell of distant lands. Columbia, Brazil, Costa Rica, Honduras...all rang of their motherland in the bowl that they were emptied in. She would look with sleepy eyes at the promise of his skilled hand, making the beans weep their harvest, and blossom miles away from the pocket they were plucked. 

He had done the same with her. She had not opened her chest to him in the beginning, questioning her move, a fluttering of butterflies in her stomach stirring up a hurricane. A deer in headlights, she was all but frozen in his love, hands and feet refusing to be dominated. But vulnerability induces either fight or flight. 

She did not want to fly, despite the hurricanes she held in her core. So she fought. Fought with the fear of an unknown place and unknown people. Slowly, she let him in, as they had foreseen. 

She had come to know solitude as a constant companion, one that wasn’t entirely desired, but not unwelcome company yet. Therefore, she was alright on her own, never needing a helping hand, nor a shoulder to grasp. Her own hands were enough, and when the ocean did threaten to drown her, she had learned how to stitch open cavities. 

But his presence had come like a breath of mountain air, swirling in the deep scent of pine and musk, gently stirring up a tornado of burgundy, yellow, and orange leaves around her. 

Autumn. 

The ending of old beginnings. 

And the beginnings of endings without endings.  

He, was a hand that asked nothing of her, not even the warmth of her own. He was eyes that simply lit up in warmth at her laugh, and a smile that could not help itself at her mirth. 

She had fallen, so deeply, so ridiculously deeply that it made her head spin.

It scared her. 

But his presence had made her stay, always looking forward, never giving any room to the fear. 

So it surprised her when she had arrived home. Home? Yes, she could call it that now. 

The table was set, a bottle of wine placed aside empty plates and glasses. Her stomach growled at the promising smell that wafted from the kitchen, immediately bringing an onslaught of saliva inside a mouth that had been parched a second ago. Another growl of discomfort nudged her towards the table. 

But he, was nowhere to be seen. 

A cool breeze wafted through a slightly open balcony door, throwing in the sounds of traffic and the blinking lights of a city that refused to sleep. It fell on the hardwood floor, painting the ground in hues of pink and blue, intermingling in patterns of purple and burgundy. She walked through the mirage, towards a mirage of her own. 

Head bowed, face in his hand, a tired figure leaned forward against the railing, back expanding in deep sighs. Her feet led her to him then, arms automatically winding around his waist, face burying itself in the space between his shoulder blades. 

Yes. She had reached home. 

She could feel the deep reverberations of laughter that went through his torso as hands found her clasped ones at his stomach. He unlocked them, chuckling again at the little grumble of disapproval coming from somewhere within his shirt. Her hands were cold, as they somehow always were, when he brought them to his lips. 

“Let’s go inside, you’re cold.” 

He made to move backwards, twisting around so that he was facing her. She let him turn, but remained frozen in her spot, only burying her face in the crook of his neck. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, kitten. Let’s go inside, hmm?”

“Yewtellmeiwaswongfust.”

And now a genuine laugh left him, causing her to look up with glazed eyes, and a stupid smile plastered to . Nonetheless, she did not move, waiting for a response. A hand came up to cup her face, and she leaned into it, eyes closing of their own accord. 

If he had closed the gap he so desperately wanted to close between their lips, the night would have been spent in the bedroom in its entirety, and not partially at the table he had so painstakingly prepared for all night. So he restrained himself and settled for her forehead, arms wrapping around firm shoulders, worries already forgotten. 

“Problem with friends?” She whispered against his neck. 

There it was again, the annoying pull at his heart, the lump at his throat, the ice water in his stomach. How she knew exactly what was wrong did not surprise him any more. She had done it so often before that he just credited it to fate, thanking God for bringing him the destiny that he now held in his hand. She extracted herself from the embrace slightly, enough to look at him in the eyes. 

Just like that, his heart was being pulled in an entirely different way, the lump in his throat was accompanied by a catch of his breath, and the ice in his stomach melted, making way for a slow burn of lava. Unable to help himself, he bent down and caught her lower lip against his own, running a curious tongue along its outline. She let him in with a sigh, allowing him to support her weight fully. The sigh was quickly transformed into a low moan as his teeth softly bit down, bruising yet gentle. Her hands curled around the collar of his shirt as his lips found their way to her jaw and proceeded to mark their way down . 

“You...didn’t...tell me wh….ahh…”

She would need to wear a scarf tomorrow. It was supposed to be 90 degree weather. Curse him and his ways…

She mentally patted herself on her back when she pushed him away slightly, not having the heart to completely separate herself. When he bent his head down to her lips again, she obliged, but whispered his name softly. 

He pulled away, caving under a stubbornness he knew could not be beaten. His eyes ran over her face for what felt like the thousandth time, never losing their thirst for her, always searching and drinking in the nuances that seemed to grow everyday. 

“Friends...idunno...”

Her eyes softened as she ran a hand over the childish pout that seemed to be his default expression. Good friends were hard to come by, but she had seen the genuity in the people that he chose. Only, every relationship had to be tested at some point. Theirs had been plenty of times. But it was the willingness, the commitment to each other, the promise that always saved them. He would just fine. 

“It’ll pass.” 

But her words did not succeed in melting the block of ice in his unfocused gaze that lingered more to the side of her face. She stood on her tiptoes, placing a quick peck on his lips to get his attention back. He leaned into her, turning the small peck into a much longer reunion of the lips. She don’t know how she did it, but she broke away with a pop, extracting her limbs from his. 

“Come back…” he pouted yet again, making grabby hands at her. With a laugh, she grabbed the hands and turned him around, facing the city, and the steady breeze that blew their way. 

“Hands up, like this,” she raised his hands and bent his elbows so that his hands were at eye level, and he looked like he was surrendering to the city in front. He tried to drop the hands, and was soon reminded to reassume the position with a steady pat to the derriere. 

“What...what exactly are we doing?”

“Just follow my lead.” She watched as he eyed her when she mirrored him. “Breathe in,” she filled her lungs with the air she had come to love, associating it with home. “Breathe out,” all the tension of the day seeped out in the exhale, leaving her hungry for food, and for something the night promised later on. She peaked through closed eyes to see a scrunched up face, and balled up fists, unable to stop the laughter that left her. 

“No...silly. Here, unclench your fists first. Relax your face.” She stepped back and admired her handy work, watching his shoulders sink with relief after each breath. “Power poses are a great way to put the bounce back in the step. Open your chest more,” she put a hand at his chest, pressing down into the warmth where her head had so often lain. As he inhaled, his torso expanded along with her world, and she was lost in his breath. “It’s ok,” she whispered, drawing closer, “We’ll be ok.”

He opened his eyes, the trouble having left him. Hands relaxing at his sides, he closed the distance between them, narrowing in on her until her back was finally resting against the railing and his arms were around her. He buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scent that he missed even when she was around. 

“How do you always know the right thing to say?”

Hands were at his hair now, combing through the thick locks. 

“Isn’t that what love is? Knowing how to put all the right pieces where they belong?”

His hand wound tighter around her, pulling her to him. Then, the night was temporarily filled with loud giggles as weight left her feet, and she was thrown over his shoulder. Instead of heading towards the prepared table, she recognized the familiar gait towards a very special place in the apartment.

“What about dinner?” she laughed. 

“It can wait,” was the response back. “Besides, we’re always hungry after.”

So the two universes collided in a burst of starlight and supernova’s dancing behind eyelids. 

Home. Yes. Home. 

 

 

***

 

 

When eye’s aren’t enough, they are. 

“Why are up so early?!” His voice is gravely and fatigued, flowing over vocal chords strained from hours of use and abuse. She smiles as it travels to her, hands pausing over the landscapes of the book in front of her. And even though she was expecting it, the slight spark in the pit of her stomach at his touch, bursts a barrier of warmth that spreads throughout her torso when she leans into his tightening embrace. She caresses the hands that have come to clasp around her waist before returning her attention to the book forearm length to her front, and half a step to her right. Her fingers find the expanse of the page only a few seconds before he is pulling her, a single arm unclasping from her waist and sliding down her outstretched one, only to interlock their fingers together and turn her around. She laughs, a sound mimicking the fresh raindrops keeping the city company outside, and winds her arms around his neck through practiced actions. 

“What time is it?”

He does not answer at first, only buries his face into hair that holds the day old scent of incense and spice, rocking them side to side with a slight twist at his torso. When he speaks again, his voice seems even sleepier than it was a second ago, eyes closing in the blissful oblivion of having her in his arms. 

“6:30…” he finally replies. 

“Huh, I thought it was earlier.”

“What are you doing up so early, Kitten?”

Hands comb through his hair with more volume than she could ever dream of, and stop at the base of his neck, before resuming their travels. He tucks his forehead into the crevice of her shoulder and collarbone, a soft moan being muffled by the gentle kiss he places there. His hands tighten around the small of her back, rubbing small circles into the tension she holds there.