He called it reading weather, but I disagreed.
While it certainly was the right temperature for a hot drink and a good story, it was my opinion that books could be enjoyed whatever the atmospheric condition, but what I had in mind would be (and by experience, I knew was) troublesome in the muggy summer heat.
Besides, I’d spent too many days like this with figments of my imagination. It was about time I found out what the real thing felt like.
He reached for me as soon as he felt the mattress dip, pulling me flush against him until our bodies aligned in all the right places. I settled into his embrace—cheek on his shoulder, hand on his chest, ankles tangled with his—and let the feel of him wash over me until I was ensconced in it, lost in a world only a blanket wide. Everywhere we touched the cold dissipated and heat spread through my veins, gold and red and molten. Everything overwhelmed me, from the earthy scent of his skin to the slight tension of his arms to the solid matter of his body beneath my fingertips.
He was perfect for the weather, warmer than a cup of coffee, more engrossing than a fantasy novel. If contentment had a name, it would be his.
I held him until I could hold him no closer, the only voluntary movement I was capable of. I could not have shifted an inch away from him, much less gotten up from that bed, for anything. Until today I hadn’t minded being alone on days like this, but now I realized that I knew absolutely nothing.
Comfort engulfed me and I closed my eyes. And then there was only warmth and darkness and sound: the steady rhythm of the raindrops punctuated by the occasional rumble of thunder, the whisper of his breaths as they harmonized with mine, the soft thud our books made as they slid to the floor when I pulled the covers up.
My last conscious thought was that if rainy days were made for anything, it was definitely this. □