214 : bite that tattoo on your shoulder

When he ambles out of the shower, towel slung around his hips, you no longer blush and avert your gaze. The water droplets clinging to his back are nothing to be jealous of anymore. So sure, grouch at him for leaving damp footprints on the floor. He gets far too much pleasure out of wrapping you into a hug that leaves you soaked, anyway. 

When he wakes up in the morning, he isn't amazed to find that you're still there. Some mornings, he marvels; You, the flight risk, have not only stolen the covers but you have done it for seventeen nights on the trot. So he doesn't shove you too hard whilst he tries to fit himself under three inches of sheet. Just hard enough. 

When you leave for work, you do it early. Far too early. There is still sleep in your eyes. You are bad-tempered and sleepy and he is forcing a mug into your one hand and your car keys into the other. The first time he did it, you were surprised enough that you woke up. Now, you belligerently remain in a state of near-coma because he has known how you like your early morning tea for two months, now.

When the lightbulb blows, you sigh. The ceilings of this old house are high - changing a lightbulb involves climbing from a chair to the armoire which tilts at a desperate angle. It's a yearly event. The sprained wrist/bruised tailbone/mild concussion have never been enough to convince you to "buy a stepladder, kid, for God's sake."
When you get home from work, he's putting your best mustard onto the world's cheapest sausage. The lightbulb glows brilliantly above his head.

When the rain starts, he looks down to where you have your hood up, face scrunched up, entirely fed up. 
"You look like the Grinch."
"Oooh, charmer."
The realisation that he loves you doesn't cause him to accidentally step in front of traffic, this time. And kisses in the rain are everything they're made out to be, even if it is only to a damp, wrinkly forehead. 

Your hands know the measure of space between his shoulder and his lovely collarbones. You fall asleep with your head on his chest, or tucked against his back, or on the other side of the bed but still with him. He wakes to your hair spread over his arm, with your lips pressed to his shoulderblade, to find you silently counting freckles. He kisses you with familiarity and fire. You know what he loves, know what makes him weak, makes him shudder - you know that most of those things are you.

Neither of you realise it's been a year until you ask what the date is. The cheque on your lap is to the sum of  two pounds and fifty pence - you just want your brother to have the hassle of walking to the bank. 
He has your dog's head in his lap. He's trying to do a crossword whilst she chews the corner of the newspaper. 
"The 3rd." 
"Year 1."
"Not helpful."
"No, of us."
The pair of you exchange a glance, and then he holds his hand out. "Fist bump?"