The sun had been up for a minute when Maia woke up, still wildly groggy from the night before.
(Still smiling from the night before, too.)
They had left the house, left the office and gone out, and by god, there had been people. Other people. Not employees, not landlords, not clients. There were even some old friends out and about. Seeing Harry's joy at the sight of old faces made it clear to her that this outing had been too long in coming. Maia would never really be able to understand it. She couldn't connect with other humans the way that Harry could, and did. Her focus tended to be a little too narrow, which was likely why her life had been marked with eras of great isolation and periods of deep happiness. The latter had been the prevailing condition for years, now.
It was Harold Lowe that did it. Harry: the man who, about three years ago, gave her a ship. Two and a half years ago, he gave her a partner. Two years ago, he gave her a shipping company. Eighteen months ago, he came for her, brought her from the bottom of the sea and helped her end the nightmares. Since then, everything had been at an even keel, and Maia could not name a time since she was a child when that had been true. She wasn't entirely certain when he gave her his heart or when he so came so thoroughly into possession of hers, for that matter. Maia only knew that, for her, it had happened quickly and without trepidation.
There they were, at home. Harry was still sound asleep, which made perfect sense. In addition to the start of his dancing lessons (and Maia wasn't through with him yet), Harry had also gotten up on a table in front of a few people he knew and a lot of people he didn't and put himself gleefully on display, dancing all the while. His abandon delighted her, and when they got home, she was clear about precisely how much. Repeatedly clear.
She lay there in their disheveled bed, their naked bodies pressed together. Still, she was intoxicated by his smell, by the incredible focus of his passion, by the feel of the lines of his body. Maia crawled just far enough out of the memories of the night before to remember that the sun had risen on Saint Valentine's Day. Granted, Maia thought that the day was largely stupid in and of itself, but she was more than capable of putting her cynicism on hold for a minute, especially where the Welshman was concerned. For a minute, she watched him, and determined that he was still out. Harry might even have been dreaming then.
Good.
With an excited little smile, Maia put every ounce of stealth that she had into slipping carefully away and creeping from their bedroom. She closed the door most of the way to help with any other sounds in the flat, and ignored the gooseflesh she quickly acquired from running around in the cold morning without anything between her and the air. Their clothes were still littered around the entrance to the flat, so she pulled on her own pants and his button-down shirt. Once her coat and shoes were on, she very, very quietly slipped out the front door and downstairs.
Things at the bakery had already starting humming, as evidenced by the wonderful smells that marked the beginning of the work day, every morning. Maia knocked on the back door before slipping inside the kitchen to see Ralmo slicing vents in loaves of sourdough and Bertie putting heart-shaped cookies on to a flat metal sheet.
"Morning, loves."
Ralmo looked at her, raised an eyebrow, and grunted. This generally passed for hello, though it was a little bit more judgmental than usual. Bertie laughed and laughed when she saw Maia.
"Well dear, looks like you made a night of it, " sang the elder woman to the younger. It was then that it occurred to Maia that she probably had bed head. She touched her hair and knew immediately that the term was too vague, too polite, too nonspecific. Maia's already wild hair was still standing in directions that might as well have been a diagram. Maia did not merely have bed head. She had sex hair. Up-too-late, pleasantly-exhausted, fell-asleep-in-a-happy-heap sex hair.
She would not be the sheepish woman, obviously living in sin and wearing a shirt that was not hers. It simply wasn't her style. Instead, Maia beamed at Bertie and fed the flame of the old woman's harmless fascination with her Harry.
"I might have made three nights of it, Bertie."
Maia's smile completed the diagram and the baker howled with laughter as she put the cookies into the oven. Ralmo looked exasperated and muttered something about the front room (but Maia caught him smirking in the dark reflection of the little window that lead to the presently-dark storefront of the cafe).
"You wicked thing. Why are you up so early, dear?"
"Wanted to surprise Harry with breakfast."
"Smart of you not to cook, then." The sweet old woman was already heading to the cart with racks and racks of goods cooling for the day.
"I know, right?" Maia grinned at the gentle ribbing.
Bertie loaded a little box with some of the things that she had deemed the best of the day and was closing it up as Maia fished a little coin from her pocket. Bertie always refused it, and Maia always left it where Ralmo would find it and put it in the till. It was part of their peculiar, familiar dance.
"Been years now, and you still act like you are trying to win the man."
Maia smiled a little as she took the box from Bertie and replied, "I suppose I am."
"That's the trick, you know. Win him everyday." Bertie smiled out towards the front room where her husband was undoubtedly pulling chairs off of table, and Maia watched the old woman with warmth, and hope, and a bit of envy. When Bertie looked back, she pointed to the box.
"You want something heavy with these. I'd go with a black tea, good dose of milk and honey. It needs to stand up to the breakfast."
"I'll bear that in mind. Thanks, love."
"Oh, don't you mention it, you dear thing. Now go on, get back up there. You could really use a comb."
Maia chuckled at the old woman and headed upstairs. She got the hearth roaring and tidied up the front of the flat. Though she didn't start it, she readied the kettle and all of the fixings for the tea. She spread out a blanket to make a picnic by the hearth, and left a plate with the fresh pastries piled there. Maia even ran a brush through her riotously awful hair and tucked in there by the hearth to read for however long it would take.
This was the scene that Harry ultimately found when he woke up, pulled on some pants, and stumbled groggily out front. His flat, warm. His breakfast, ready. His kettle, singing. Best of all, his woman: satisfied, content, and wearing his shirt.
"Happy Valentine's Day, love."
(Still smiling from the night before, too.)
They had left the house, left the office and gone out, and by god, there had been people. Other people. Not employees, not landlords, not clients. There were even some old friends out and about. Seeing Harry's joy at the sight of old faces made it clear to her that this outing had been too long in coming. Maia would never really be able to understand it. She couldn't connect with other humans the way that Harry could, and did. Her focus tended to be a little too narrow, which was likely why her life had been marked with eras of great isolation and periods of deep happiness. The latter had been the prevailing condition for years, now.
It was Harold Lowe that did it. Harry: the man who, about three years ago, gave her a ship. Two and a half years ago, he gave her a partner. Two years ago, he gave her a shipping company. Eighteen months ago, he came for her, brought her from the bottom of the sea and helped her end the nightmares. Since then, everything had been at an even keel, and Maia could not name a time since she was a child when that had been true. She wasn't entirely certain when he gave her his heart or when he so came so thoroughly into possession of hers, for that matter. Maia only knew that, for her, it had happened quickly and without trepidation.
There they were, at home. Harry was still sound asleep, which made perfect sense. In addition to the start of his dancing lessons (and Maia wasn't through with him yet), Harry had also gotten up on a table in front of a few people he knew and a lot of people he didn't and put himself gleefully on display, dancing all the while. His abandon delighted her, and when they got home, she was clear about precisely how much. Repeatedly clear.
She lay there in their disheveled bed, their naked bodies pressed together. Still, she was intoxicated by his smell, by the incredible focus of his passion, by the feel of the lines of his body. Maia crawled just far enough out of the memories of the night before to remember that the sun had risen on Saint Valentine's Day. Granted, Maia thought that the day was largely stupid in and of itself, but she was more than capable of putting her cynicism on hold for a minute, especially where the Welshman was concerned. For a minute, she watched him, and determined that he was still out. Harry might even have been dreaming then.
Good.
With an excited little smile, Maia put every ounce of stealth that she had into slipping carefully away and creeping from their bedroom. She closed the door most of the way to help with any other sounds in the flat, and ignored the gooseflesh she quickly acquired from running around in the cold morning without anything between her and the air. Their clothes were still littered around the entrance to the flat, so she pulled on her own pants and his button-down shirt. Once her coat and shoes were on, she very, very quietly slipped out the front door and downstairs.
Things at the bakery had already starting humming, as evidenced by the wonderful smells that marked the beginning of the work day, every morning. Maia knocked on the back door before slipping inside the kitchen to see Ralmo slicing vents in loaves of sourdough and Bertie putting heart-shaped cookies on to a flat metal sheet.
"Morning, loves."
Ralmo looked at her, raised an eyebrow, and grunted. This generally passed for hello, though it was a little bit more judgmental than usual. Bertie laughed and laughed when she saw Maia.
"Well dear, looks like you made a night of it, " sang the elder woman to the younger. It was then that it occurred to Maia that she probably had bed head. She touched her hair and knew immediately that the term was too vague, too polite, too nonspecific. Maia's already wild hair was still standing in directions that might as well have been a diagram. Maia did not merely have bed head. She had sex hair. Up-too-late, pleasantly-exhausted, fell-asleep-in-a-happy-heap sex hair.
She would not be the sheepish woman, obviously living in sin and wearing a shirt that was not hers. It simply wasn't her style. Instead, Maia beamed at Bertie and fed the flame of the old woman's harmless fascination with her Harry.
"I might have made three nights of it, Bertie."
Maia's smile completed the diagram and the baker howled with laughter as she put the cookies into the oven. Ralmo looked exasperated and muttered something about the front room (but Maia caught him smirking in the dark reflection of the little window that lead to the presently-dark storefront of the cafe).
"You wicked thing. Why are you up so early, dear?"
"Wanted to surprise Harry with breakfast."
"Smart of you not to cook, then." The sweet old woman was already heading to the cart with racks and racks of goods cooling for the day.
"I know, right?" Maia grinned at the gentle ribbing.
Bertie loaded a little box with some of the things that she had deemed the best of the day and was closing it up as Maia fished a little coin from her pocket. Bertie always refused it, and Maia always left it where Ralmo would find it and put it in the till. It was part of their peculiar, familiar dance.
"Been years now, and you still act like you are trying to win the man."
Maia smiled a little as she took the box from Bertie and replied, "I suppose I am."
"That's the trick, you know. Win him everyday." Bertie smiled out towards the front room where her husband was undoubtedly pulling chairs off of table, and Maia watched the old woman with warmth, and hope, and a bit of envy. When Bertie looked back, she pointed to the box.
"You want something heavy with these. I'd go with a black tea, good dose of milk and honey. It needs to stand up to the breakfast."
"I'll bear that in mind. Thanks, love."
"Oh, don't you mention it, you dear thing. Now go on, get back up there. You could really use a comb."
Maia chuckled at the old woman and headed upstairs. She got the hearth roaring and tidied up the front of the flat. Though she didn't start it, she readied the kettle and all of the fixings for the tea. She spread out a blanket to make a picnic by the hearth, and left a plate with the fresh pastries piled there. Maia even ran a brush through her riotously awful hair and tucked in there by the hearth to read for however long it would take.
This was the scene that Harry ultimately found when he woke up, pulled on some pants, and stumbled groggily out front. His flat, warm. His breakfast, ready. His kettle, singing. Best of all, his woman: satisfied, content, and wearing his shirt.
"Happy Valentine's Day, love."