Page 4 of Love the Way You Lion
“Hi, baby. How was your trip?” My voice carries the warmth of welcome, even as I put aside my project, eager for him to bridge the distance between us. The serenity of our home wraps around me, the music and candlelight crafting a scene far removed from the dreariness outside.
Taurus’ smile cuts through the room’s tranquility, a sunbeam amidst the storm’s grey. “Sod that. Nothing’s as good as being here.” With a fluid motion, he shrugs out of his duster and sends it arching across the distance to drape over the back of a nearby chair. Then, lowering himself with an effortless grace, he kneels before me, reverence in his gaze.
“Christ, you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
His words, sincere and unguarded, stir something deep within me. I smile again, the familiarity of his adoration wrapping around me like the blanket I’m cocooned in. I lean forward, reaching down to let my lips brush his forehead, my touch a gentle benediction.
“You spoil me,” I murmur. In this quiet moment, surrounded by the soft symphony of strings and flickering candlelight, his presence is the only embellishment I need.
The blanket falls away as I lean forward, my focus shifting from the window to Taurus. He gives me a casual shrug, a calm gesture that belies the tension etched in his expression. “It’s part and parcel, my love.”
There’s something sheepish in his look, a crease of annoyance between his brows that softens as he meets my eyes. “That gnat Tamara texted me today, and she annoyed me so bloody much that I told her off.” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck—a telltale sign of his discomfort. “I told her about being exclusive withyou, but I couldn’t quite remember the date you gave me the ring.”
I blink, surprised by the question. The memory of sliding the band onto his finger feels as intimate as it is recent—so close I can still feel the warmth of his skin against mine. But the exact day? It slips through my thoughts like water. “I gave it to you a week ago now, but I don’t know the date.”
The numbers and days blurred into insignificance against the backdrop of our joined lives; time marked not by calendars, but by moments we shared. I watch him for a reaction, hoping he understands that some things—like the depth of our connection—transcend the need for specific dates.
Taurus’s lower lip juts out in a playful pout, the corners of his mouth twitching as he tries to maintain an air of mock indignation. “Oh, fine. Take a husband and don’t remember when.” He crosses his arms, theatrically turning his head away. “When did we mate, then? If you don’t know that, I’m out of here for the night.”
I can’t help but chuckle at his dramatics—the way he can shift from gravitas to childlike sulkiness never ceases to amuse me. “On a Wednesday,” I reply, my voice a gentle sing-song, an anchor to draw him back from the brink of feigned exasperation.
Taurus huffs, his expression morphing from playful to genuinely curious. His hands find their way to his hips as he continues to pout. “What was the date, woman?” The question hangs in the air between us like a ten ton weight.
The needles in my hand pause mid-stitch, the soft clicking sound they made ceasing abruptly. My heart flutters like a trapped bird against my ribs as I feel the weight of his gaze, curious and expectant. I meet his eyes, a whirlpool of emotions swirling within me—embarrassment, frustration, affection—all tangled like the yarn at my feet.
Feeling blindsided by the sudden importance of a number, I give him a sheepish look. “I don’t remember.” My voice comes out softer than intended, carrying with it a silent plea. It isn’t the date that holds significance for me, but the memory of our unity.
Rain patters against the window in a rhythm that seems to mock my lapse in memory. Taurus’ eyes hold a playful twinkle, and with a dramatic flourish befitting a stage, he proclaims, “It’s hard to forget, given it was on April Bloody Fool’s Day!”
I can’t help but snort, amusement bubbling up despite the tension. The irony of our poignant moment coinciding with a day of pranks isn’t lost on me. “I thought we weren’t telling anyone that,” I say, the corners of my mouth twitching upwards into a reluctant smile.
Taurus’ shoulders slump as he retreats to the couch, a silhouette of dejection against the flickering candlelight. His boots leave soft impressions on the carpet, carrying the weight of his mood with every step.
“Baby, I’m sorry,” I murmur, pinching the bridge of my nose. Rising, I let the knitted squares slip from my lap like autumn leaves abandoning their branches, scattering across the hardwood floor in a silent testament to my carelessness.
Approaching him, I see his jaw set in a stubborn line, yet the warmth that usually radiates from him seems dimmer. “I really am,” I add, seeking forgiveness for something I didn’t know would matter so much to him.
But he will not let it go so easily, I think.
Kneeling before him, I reach out tentatively, my fingers trembling slightly as they brush against his cheek. His eyes close at the contact, lashes casting long shadows on his skin, a canvas of trust and vulnerability.
“It hurts, love,” Taurus murmurs, his voice a soft echo in the candlelit room. His face leans into my touch, seeking solace in the warmth of my palm. “I shouldn’t guilt you since I know you didn’t mean to.” Even with eyes closed, there is a sincerity in his expression that belies the casualness of his tone.
My heart clenches at the sight of him. This man who will face down killers, yet is wounded by an accidental oversight.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’ll be better, I swear.” My voice wavers, laden with the weight of promises and silent vows to never let such forgetfulness cause him pain again. Gently cupping his face, I press my forehead to his. We share a breath, a moment of connection to mend the tiny fracture of forgotten dates with the glue of our bond.
I hate knowing this small thing hurts someone I love so goddamn much.
Taurus’ voice is a low, resonant balm to the tension in the room. “I’ll heal.”
I shake my head slowly, the motion stirring strands of hair across my face. A sense of self-reproach gnaws at me—an unpleasant companion that had lingered since an unexpected visit threw my day into disarray.
The candles flicker, their light dancing against the walls, as if to chase away the shadows that creep into my conscience. Beethoven’s sonata ebbs and flows through the room, a soundtrack to my unease. The quiet melody is normally comforting, but it only serves to amplify the discord within me right now.
“You shouldn’t have to,” I murmur, my voice barely above the sound of the rain. “It’s my fault.”
The squares of knitting are abandoned behind me, colorful patches of intention that now seem trivial in the wake of our emotionalexchange. With a sigh, I retreat further into the chair that feels more like a fortress of solitude than a nest of comfort. Its cushions embrace my form as I tuck my legs beneath me. Resting back, I close my eyes for a moment, searching for equilibrium in a world that is intent on keeping it just out of reach.
