claire dearing is an olympic sprinter (heels) wrote in witchinghour,
"I don't know, you might look good with a label right here," she quipped, leaning over to swipe a thumb over Owen's forehead, as if she were planning to brand him. No, there was no need - words were enough, and it was obvious by now that she trusted him. It was why she'd probably loosen up even more; she'd realize she didn't have to be so tightly wound all the time. Already their experiences had shown her that life was precious, and short, and in a place like this? Yeah, there was no need to be so high-strung.
Then she kept her hands to herself, for the time being. "One day we'll go to a colder climate," she promised, picking up her wine glass for another sip, actually appreciating the flavor and the bitterness with a sweetened edge. "I like the cold. I like bundling up, I should say. Feeling cozy." God, would they still be here for the holidays? Did it snow? Scary thought.