Marble

Abby glanced at the boy next to her.

It was more than a glance; as soon as their eyes met, she fell into them. In the cheesy romantic way. She was tumbling forward through space, time stretching and bending, and then he smiled and she felt herself grow dizzy.

"Stop that," she said quietly. They were sitting in the silence, again, their breathing the only proof of life in the cozy living room.

"Stop what?" Peter said, his smile widening. Abby felt her heartbeat grow stronger.

"That thing where you try to make me fall in love with you again."

Peter's smile faded and Abby felt cold all over. "I wasn't--"

"I know. But you're getting the wrong idea still. I'm not mad."

Peter looked at Abby quizzically, the soft evening light casting shadows across his face. He was a masterpiece of the soul, smoothed into perfection. To Abby, he always looked like something carved out of marble. Those statues were always the most elegant, their curves and soft edges endearing.

"What do you mean, Abby?" Peter said, and the softness of his voice made Abby ache. Then she was looking at him, her eyes running over his perfect lips and deep dark eyes and soft curves of his face. He was so kissable it was angering.

"I mean," Abby said, her voice so full of force and passion that she scared herself, "I want to be with you. I know we messed up-- I messed up-- but I still want you. I mean--love--"

Peter was smiling. Abby could barely recognize the look, but it was intimidating.

Peter was leaning forward, and before Abby could process anything, she felt her body being pressed to Peter's. An ethereal, euphoric sensation spread throughout her as Peter pressed his lips to Abby's. They were soft, loveable, and warm. Peter was soft all over-- his kisses, his eyes, his love.

Peter wrapped his arms around Abby and soon they were sharing body heat, one warm body pressed into the other. Peter was kissing her more intensely, his touch gentle yet passionate.

Abby wanted every single inch of him. His mouth, his hands, his body made of marble and torn from myths. She was falling into his touch. She was captivated completely.

Peter pulled away for just a moment, and Abby saw every memory in his warm mocha eyes.

She saw the day they went to museum and Abby finally understood why some compared freckles to stars. Peter blushed when Abby compared him to Starry Night. He was soft and bold and colorful all over, a living contradiction. She remembered Peter's child-like laughter whenever she made a bad pun.

She remembered the day they fought, the tension tangible. She remembered the sour taste to her own words and the undeniable sting of the opposing words. They were sharp as knives, slicing through his skin as easily as one would rip paper.

She remembered sobbing for hours, asking herself what she'd done. She'd told herself he didn't deserve Peter anyway in the first place. She didn't deserve a boy with freckles like constellations and a voice like honey.

Now she had Peter back.

She had him back, and he was just as colorful as before. Maybe even more. The saturation dripped from his voice and his eyes and his smile and his passionate kisses.

"Carry me away," she whispered into Peter's mouth.