Sharon has gone through her whole life, her whole life, unable to see what her future could hold. Even when she washed up on these shores, the future was tenuous; it was always just about getting through to tomorrow and tomorrow could bring with it anything. For once, it feels like there's solid ground beneath her feet.
Summer, he says, and suddenly those blue skies don't seem that far off.
She leans into him and relishes in their closeness. Takes a moment to memorize his scent and his profile and the way the pale hairs curl at the nape of his neck. Tries to figure out how he's made her feel this way but comes up empty-handed and can only recognize that she likes it; likes him.
"You make me want to," see Summer, she admits shyly, her eyes on the painting. Mayerling has managed to uncover a wealth of desires and wants within her she didn't even know were there.
"I assume it's obvious," she starts slowly, a bundle of nerves in her stomach, "but I like you," she does not look at him as she speaks, her eyes stuck to the painting before them, "More than I've liked anyone. Differently than I've liked anyone."
When she finally looks at him, her smile is bright and gleaming and confident and a little coy, "I wanna be with you and around you and listen to you talk. I wanna know about everything you enjoy doing and everything you don't."
Sharon Da Silva is not a romantic. She has never dreamed of falling in love. She has never cared about the romance of fictional characters or cried when lovers were torn apart in movies. She gags at the over-the-top displays in most film. But, here she is, being everything she swears she is not.
no subject
Summer, he says, and suddenly those blue skies don't seem that far off.
She leans into him and relishes in their closeness. Takes a moment to memorize his scent and his profile and the way the pale hairs curl at the nape of his neck. Tries to figure out how he's made her feel this way but comes up empty-handed and can only recognize that she likes it; likes him.
"You make me want to," see Summer, she admits shyly, her eyes on the painting. Mayerling has managed to uncover a wealth of desires and wants within her she didn't even know were there.
"I assume it's obvious," she starts slowly, a bundle of nerves in her stomach, "but I like you," she does not look at him as she speaks, her eyes stuck to the painting before them, "More than I've liked anyone. Differently than I've liked anyone."
When she finally looks at him, her smile is bright and gleaming and confident and a little coy, "I wanna be with you and around you and listen to you talk. I wanna know about everything you enjoy doing and everything you don't."
Sharon Da Silva is not a romantic. She has never dreamed of falling in love. She has never cared about the romance of fictional characters or cried when lovers were torn apart in movies. She gags at the over-the-top displays in most film. But, here she is, being everything she swears she is not.