Kate Beckett (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
fanofthegenre) wrote2012-03-12 02:35 pm
fanofthegenre) wrote2012-03-12 02:35 pm
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None of the sounds Beckett's used to waking up to are what rouse her in the morning - she thinks it's morning, at least, but she doesn't know for sure. What does wake her is the sound of breathing - her own as well as someone else's - and she turns her head, peeling away from warm sheets and an even warmer body.
She'd fallen asleep with her cheek nestled against Jack's shoulder, the sheet haphazardly thrown over the both of them; now, she isn't sure if she should move, or even if she wants to. Knowing what might potentially await them on the other side of the door (dreading it, even) is what eventually, inevitably leads her back into the bed, curling back into the safety of that warmth.
She can't ignore the flutter in the pit of her stomach as her skin slides against his, and she won't pretend to.
She'd fallen asleep with her cheek nestled against Jack's shoulder, the sheet haphazardly thrown over the both of them; now, she isn't sure if she should move, or even if she wants to. Knowing what might potentially await them on the other side of the door (dreading it, even) is what eventually, inevitably leads her back into the bed, curling back into the safety of that warmth.
She can't ignore the flutter in the pit of her stomach as her skin slides against his, and she won't pretend to.