Je t'aime, tu sais?

Mrs. Delacour sat at her breakfast bar with a warm cup of tea in her hands and looked out over their bay window showing the city.
She sighed, contently.
Whenever the girls were home, she often got up in the mornings for time by herself. She had plenty of time to herself when Emily was at her own apartment and in school and Jamie was in Boston because her husband worked so often, but when the girls came to visit, it had always been her ritual to watch the sunrise and value life in the wee hours of the morning by herself.
It gave her a sense of appreciation for still being alive. It allowed her time to overwhelming love her girls, her family, her life; to value what had happened the day before, whatever it was.
She held a hand to her chest, bare of any breast, having had a mastectomy years prior to save her life, and smiled, knowing it had worked. For a while, she weeped at the thought of never getting to see her girls marry, never getting to see Emily's graduate recital, never getting to see Jamie fall in love with something that wasn't written in a book or lectured about in class.
She sipped her tea, smiling and thinking of Jamie.
Jamie, her toughest nut to crack. She herself and Emily were must more free spirited, while Jamie and her father were much more calculated. She remembered often sneaking into Jamie's room when she was just a child and reasoning with her about going to a birthday party or going out shopping with her and Emily, and Jamie being too disciplined to indulge, too serious. Mr. Delacour had thought it was fine.
"She's just a girl!" She had pleaded with her husband. "She needs to live life, dance, sing, laugh; she needs to love, mon amor."
And now she does, Mrs. Delacour thought, thinking of Patrice warmly.
She could tell by the way they looked at each other. Sure, their romance was young, but with what Jamie had told her in secret calls home... Patrice was not much different from Jamie, or Mr. Delacour. The difference between them and her father was: they were letting love in.
Hearing a door crack down the hall, and the soft padding of feet, she was surprised anyone else was up so early. She tightened her crimson bathrobe around herself, crossing her arms in front of her chest, and turned to see Patrice entering the kitchen.
"Good morning, Patrice" she said, welcoming him gently. "I hope I didn't wake you, with the kettle," she said, nodding to the steaming kettle on the stove that had just whistled moments before.
"No, not at all, not at all," he said. "I was going to go running, if that was alright," he asked, leaning against the island, facing her, and pulling his foot up to stuff into his shoe.
Mrs. Delacour made eye contact with him and smiled; she just adored him. "Of course," she replied, sipping her tea. She could see why Jamie was so excited about him; he was handsome, extremely polite, chiseled, and collected. Her and her father had often worried Jamie would never meet a man her age who was just as composed as she was, and then, voila! Patrice Bergeron.
He was even from Quebec City.
It was all too perfect.
She kept her arms tightly folded across her chest, not knowing how much Jamie had informed him of her medical history and not wanting him to feel awkward around his girlfriend's pajama clad mother. She stood, getting up and heading to the beautiful stainless steel refrigerator.
"Should you run with your hand, hun?" She asked, watching him attempt to tie his shoes with his good fingers.
"Should be fine," he said, frowning and nodding his head. "Shouldn't be a problem," he stood straight again and rolled his ankles. He was in black, baggy windbreaker underarmor pants and a tight, white underarmor shirt. He pulled his grey reebook hoodie over his head, and gently finagled it around his velcroed hand.
"I know my husband speaks volumes about this stuff," she said, showing Patrice a single serving carton of Zicco coconut water. "We have some; you're more than welcome to it when you get back. It's just in the door here."
"I love coconut water; thank you very much," he smiled, pulling a beanie out from his sweatshirt pocket and pulling it over his head. She noticed the light shadow covering his cheeks and chin, particularly darker around his muzzle. She remembered it was called his five o'clock shadow, and smiled.
"You have a commitment around noon today, right?" She asked.
He smiled. "Yeah, for maybe about four hours," he made a face.
"And you two are headed outside the city after?"
"Yes--if that's alright."
"Of course," Mrs. Delacour smiled.
"My parents would be very upset if Jamie and I were this close and they didn't get to meet her," he laughed, blushing a bit. He pulled on some thin, warm gloves.
Mrs. Delacour laughed, too, so happy inside for her daughter and this gentleman. If he was as much like Jamie as she said he was, she could only imagine how excited his parents must be to meet her. She smiled, hugging herself tighter, knowing they would love her girl; everyone loved her girls. They were good girls.
"My brother lives in the city; we're meeting to run. I should be back before Jamie wakes up," Patrice said, standing straight.
"That's wonderful. He's more than welcome to come to breakfast; Jamie and I love to cook in the mornings."
"I'll extend him the invitation; thank you, Mrs. Delacour," Patrice said, smiling with the left side of his mouth. She found his crooked K9 tooth adorable.

Patrice crossed his ankles and leaned back on the mirrored wall of the elevator, plummeting to the ground floor of the Delacour's apartment complex to meet with Guill. He smiled and remembered last night. The dinner was only painfully awkward until the entree arrived, and by then they had all shared a few glasses of wine and Patrice had finally answered his phone and they truly began to enjoy one another's company.
He was still intimidated by Jamie's father, however, despite the fact that he had seemed impressed by Patrice's credentials in the hockey world.
His pants crinkled as he switched feet, re-crossing his ankles.
They had stayed at the steakhouse late into the evening--Jamie had even convinced him to split a thin slice of cheesecake with her for dessert; of which he only had a few bites of--and then they had reclined in the formal living room of their apartment, sipping on dessert wine and laughing and blushing and telling stories about Jamie then and now.
He laughed, blushing and shaking his head as he remembered insisting that Emily sleep on the sleeper sofa in the library as opposed to the couch in her parents' bedroom while Jamie slept in Emily's bedroom, only to be met with the quick response of the beautiful, young girl, "What, would you like to sleep with my parents, Patrice?" causing laughter from the family.
He had slept well; especially when an hour after he had bid the family good night and kissed Jamie on the cheek in front of them, she had crawled into bed with him, backing her knees up to his, rubbing her face in his hair and sliding her arm underneath his so she could stroke his chest.
"Mon amoreaux," she had whispered, snaking her other arm under his neck to support his sleeping head. He had finally taken a whole pain killer, knowing he'd sleep through the dopiness, and he was warm and happy, filled with good food, wine, and love.
He rolled over to face her, holding her tiny body tightly to his. She kissed his sleeping face, his lips.
"Thanks for spending the night with us," she had whispered, her fingertip tracing the healing scar on the side of his face. The superglue had solidified it, making it feel hard as rock, and the pain killers had numbed it.
"Thank you for inviting me, cherie," he said, cupping her cheek and giving her a big, tired kiss. Almost roughly, she wrapped her thin arms around his neck and pulled him into her chest, hugging him fiercely.
"Patrice, I've never had feelings like these before," she whispered, her heart beating fast. She hugged him to her chest tighter, to which he responded by wrapping her arms around her middle, and rubbing his face into her chest. He breathed warm air into her pajama shirt.
"You make me feel... I've never felt this way about someone before..." she admitted, kissing the top of his head, stroking the back of it, tracing circles on his neck.
"Jamie," he breathed, his arms and hands covering her back, holding her close. He kissed her chest, her crew neck hoodie separating them but he didn't care. He kissed wherever he could reach as they held each other, his stomach flipping and flopping happily.
He stopped, rubbing her back and breathing into her breasts again, his nose resting on her chest.
"I'm kind of afraid," she whispered, still playing with the smooth skin on the back of his neck.
His hands slowed their massage and she instantly reacted.
"It's just, I've never given myself to someone before; I just..." She struggled to find the words. He didn't pressure her; he continued to rub her back and warm her chest with his breath. "I just, I'm used to doing everything on my own; I'm not used to depending on someone to..."
He knew what she meant. She wasn't used to seeking happiness in another.
He was the same way.
And it was scary.
But for the first time in his life his heart out-dictated his gut, and he was going to be scared for a little while.
He pulled her away from him and sat up, leveling himself with her. He took one of her hands in his, and with his bad hand, he covered her small, cold fingers. He kissed their tips.
"You don't have to explain it; I get it," he whispered, kissing them again. "I really do," he said, assuringly. She cuddled into his chest, and he moved his arms to continue to rub her back again. She sighed, contently.
"You don't have to be afraid, mon amor," he whispered, until he fell asleep again, comfortably.
The elevator door jerked to a stop and he uncrossed his legs, striding into the lobby and seeing Guill outside, waiting for him.

Jamie rolled over in Emily's bed, the down blanket thick and soft and smelling of home. She hugged an armful of the comforter, remembering her encounter with a sleepy, well-fed, Patrice last night in the room across the hall from her. She remembered the way he smelt, how warm he was, the noises that escaped his throat and how his hair raised on end when her fingers grazed his skin.
She loved him.
She was loving him.
He had grown inside her so fast, and now she couldn't forget him anytime of the day.
She opened her eyes, unafraid.
Swinging her legs over the edge of the bed, she stepped into her moccasins as she pushed herself up from the double bed. She pulled the comforters up to the headboard and rearranged the pillows. Pulling Emily's Quebec Dance Conservatory crew neck over her thin pajama shirt.
She moved across the hall, gently rapping her knuckles on the door to the library. With no response, she quietly pushed the door open, peering inside.
No Patrice.
Her heart fell.
She opened the door to examine the big room, completely tidied from his stay last night. The bed was straightened and made, and his duffel was open, all of his belongings inside neatly folded. She traced the top of his belongings with her soft fingers and sat on his bed, missing him. She had desperately wanted to rub his back and watching his rub his face into the mattress, his back rumbling as he mumbled and yawned and flexed his arms and legs.
She rose, pulling her hair up into a bun and made her way into the kitchen. Her mum was sitting at the breakfast bar, her legs crossed, bundled up in her bathrobe and drinking tea.
"Your beau went for a run," she said, smirking at Jamie. Jamie blushed, pouring herself a mug of tea; she didn't mind the gentle teasing, not after her and Patrice's intimate conversation last night. More and more she had the feeling that they were officially going to be together; that she would be his girlfriend and he would be her boyfriend. She normally had no interest in labels and officiality, but, she couldn't help it this time. She wanted all of him, and she wanted to give all of herself to him, too.
"He's quite wonderful," her mum said as Jamie took a seat next to her.
She took a sip of her tea, smiling. "He is, isn't it?" She replied, locking eyes with her mum, who smiled back.