The breakfast Amber was making smelled both delicious and complicated. Foreman inhaled, his hunger sharpened by the scent of pancakes, sausages, and fresh coffee. He walked into the kitchen warily. Maybe Amber was still upset; Foreman could easily respect giving her some space if she was. He pulled down two mugs from one of Amber's cupboards and poured coffee for them; the pot had just finished dripping. He fixed Amber's the way she liked, and left hers on the counter beside her.
He took his mug to the table, intending to leave it there and then set the rest of the table, but setting his coffee down in the same place he'd left his note earlier about going for his run made him realize it wasn't there any more. His ears warmed in embarrassment. It'd been a stupid, sappy gesture. Amber would want to know where he was if she'd woken up while he was out, and the simple short phrases explaining that didn't need emphasis. But he'd gotten that far, squeezing the pen between his fingers, a helpless, silly smile on his face as he hesitated. Finally he'd added, love you, as if the words on paper meant as much as saying them to Amber directly. Like the time he'd called her baby and she'd asked him to say it again--he'd promised he'd tell her, when the feeling came over him. In the end he'd written the words, hastily and messily, before jogging down the block, high on a surge of happiness.
Foreman checked under the table, but he couldn't see the piece of paper--it hadn't fallen. Amber was the only one who'd been in here since then. Had she found it? Did she care? Or was it exactly the sort of thing she expected on a note, so that she'd swept it into the trash now that it'd served its function?
He laughed silently at himself for his own ridiculous assumptions. He went back into the kitchen and got out plates and cutlery. Before taking them to the table, he set them briefly on the counter, just out of the way of where Amber was cooking. Foreman leaning close to her, lightly brushing her tangled hair off her neck with one hand, and bent to leave a lingering, warm series of kisses along the side of her throat. Looking down at the frying pan over his shoulder, he sighed and wrapped his arms around her from behind. There should be something to say, but the words didn't want to come, so Foreman pressed his closed lips to her skin again, resting there, where he could breathe in the sleep-warm scent of her skin.
no subject
He took his mug to the table, intending to leave it there and then set the rest of the table, but setting his coffee down in the same place he'd left his note earlier about going for his run made him realize it wasn't there any more. His ears warmed in embarrassment. It'd been a stupid, sappy gesture. Amber would want to know where he was if she'd woken up while he was out, and the simple short phrases explaining that didn't need emphasis. But he'd gotten that far, squeezing the pen between his fingers, a helpless, silly smile on his face as he hesitated. Finally he'd added, love you, as if the words on paper meant as much as saying them to Amber directly. Like the time he'd called her baby and she'd asked him to say it again--he'd promised he'd tell her, when the feeling came over him. In the end he'd written the words, hastily and messily, before jogging down the block, high on a surge of happiness.
Foreman checked under the table, but he couldn't see the piece of paper--it hadn't fallen. Amber was the only one who'd been in here since then. Had she found it? Did she care? Or was it exactly the sort of thing she expected on a note, so that she'd swept it into the trash now that it'd served its function?
He laughed silently at himself for his own ridiculous assumptions. He went back into the kitchen and got out plates and cutlery. Before taking them to the table, he set them briefly on the counter, just out of the way of where Amber was cooking. Foreman leaning close to her, lightly brushing her tangled hair off her neck with one hand, and bent to leave a lingering, warm series of kisses along the side of her throat. Looking down at the frying pan over his shoulder, he sighed and wrapped his arms around her from behind. There should be something to say, but the words didn't want to come, so Foreman pressed his closed lips to her skin again, resting there, where he could breathe in the sleep-warm scent of her skin.