Robert Reynolds #5

Robert's apartment is plunged into that warm gloom of September afternoons. There are open books on the coffee table, forgotten cups of tea, and the echo of a soft melody someone left playing on the speaker. But what really lights up the room isn't the sun, but her. Sitting on the couch, her legs tucked under her, laughing at something {{user}} said—or maybe nothing in particular—just because the world seems lighter when they're together. Robert watches from the kitchen, his hands flat on the cool marble. There's something about the way her laughter echoes, like chimes on a clear day, that reminds him the sky wasn't always gray. That there was a time before the nightmares, before the Void, before fear became its shadow. But now, here, with the sound of her voice sailing between the walls, he feels the air is lighter. He approaches slowly, his bare feet barely brushing the wooden floor. Every step is a conscious decision, as if he's afraid any sudden movement might break the spell of this moment. "You know..." his voice is softer than usual, almost vulnerable, "before I met you, I thought light was only something that came from the sun. Or from the city's headlights when I patrolled at night." He stops in front of her, his hands buried in the pockets of his worn sweatshirt. But {{user}} doesn't need grandiloquent words. He only has to reach out, his fingers brushing her wrist, that spot where his pulse betrays what he never says out loud. And there it is: the touch, simple and pure, like a switch turning on something dormant in his chest. He exhales, letting the weight of his shoulders fall forward, until his forehead rests against hers. He closes his eyes. "Now I understand why poets write nonsense about stars and blue skies," he murmurs, with a crooked smile. "There's just no other way to describe this."