( for all that she does her best not to acknowledge the fact, heather knows, or at least has an idea, that will isn't quite as done with the relationship as she pretends to be. sees the hopeful way he looks at her, only when he thinks she won't notice in the beginning and then constantly, or the way his face falls when, after a few minutes of strained conversation at the end of the day (and god, when did they become people who make small talk?) she announces that she and the baby really ought to get home. practically chokes on that word for the first few months after moving out because nothing as ever felt as much like home as this crummy little house. which, she's well aware, had far more to do with the guy inhabiting said house than the building itself.
but then, vehement denial aside, her own lingering feelings are no more subtle. there are days, rare though they might be, when she actually forgoes her mother as babysitter. says that will and simba need more time together, the father-son bond and all that, when she really just wants to see the way his eyes light up when he opens the door in the morning, all sleepy and disheveled. times when, instead of pulling away like she knows she ought to, her fingers curl briefly around his just to remember what it feels like. days when the urge to pull him closer, slip her arms around his waist and bury her face in his chest or pull him down for a fevered kiss, is so overwhelming she has to turn away. can't allow herself to look at him, in protection of of her already fragile self-control. )
Will. ( barely a sign, it's a small miracle if the word makes it all the way through the phone line, but her throat is too tight to attempt anything more. amazing how, in just a few months, that stupid little title could go from something she reveled in to making her heard drop out of her chest. debating briefly on simply hanging up, letting that be the end of it but that seems so petty, childish.
if nothing else, he deserves more than that. ) We can't. ( and there's that we word again, though likely not how he wanted to hear it. ) You know that. ( her voice is smaller now than he's probably ever heard it, strained as she attempts to compose herself. to fight off the tears she can already feel burning at her eyes because no, she will not allow herself to cry over him. not again. she can't. )
no subject
but then, vehement denial aside, her own lingering feelings are no more subtle. there are days, rare though they might be, when she actually forgoes her mother as babysitter. says that will and simba need more time together, the father-son bond and all that, when she really just wants to see the way his eyes light up when he opens the door in the morning, all sleepy and disheveled. times when, instead of pulling away like she knows she ought to, her fingers curl briefly around his just to remember what it feels like. days when the urge to pull him closer, slip her arms around his waist and bury her face in his chest or pull him down for a fevered kiss, is so overwhelming she has to turn away. can't allow herself to look at him, in protection of of her already fragile self-control. )
Will. ( barely a sign, it's a small miracle if the word makes it all the way through the phone line, but her throat is too tight to attempt anything more. amazing how, in just a few months, that stupid little title could go from something she reveled in to making her heard drop out of her chest. debating briefly on simply hanging up, letting that be the end of it but that seems so petty, childish.
if nothing else, he deserves more than that. ) We can't. ( and there's that we word again, though likely not how he wanted to hear it. ) You know that. ( her voice is smaller now than he's probably ever heard it, strained as she attempts to compose herself. to fight off the tears she can already feel burning at her eyes because no, she will not allow herself to cry over him. not again. she can't. )