Drabble + Fluff = Dandruff. Because I think I'm funny.
The fire flickered in the hearth and, with one leg curled neatly under her and her red-rimmed glasses perched elegantly on her nose, she devoted her quiet evening to case files, budget reports, and agent evaluations.
The study smelled like cooling coffee, faint sawdust, and maybe bourbon, if you inhaled a deep enough breath. Expensive French perfume touched everything. The sounds heard were the occasional rustle of papers, the click of a pen, the crackle of flames, and the steady, soothing tick of the grandfather clock.
It was late, dark, and starry outside.
Her short, feathered, intriguingly blonde-streaked red locks brushed against her defined cheekbones with each small twitch of her cheek in an analytical frown or a raised brow of inquiry. Her lips never failed to be parted just barely.
She didn't know why he wanted to watch her work in such easy silence. What a bore, she thought, suppressing a yawn, and an urge to abandon her work and push herself away from the antique oak desk and cuddle into his side on the couch.
"Jen," he said mildly.
His gruff voice was a welcome break in the comfortable silence, deep and familiar in timbre and always warm to her ears.
She looked up by way of answer, flicking down her glasses expertly and peering over them at his crystal blue eyes and unbuttoned shirt and wrinkled blazer.
"I love you."
The redhead smiled, and a faint blush touched her cheeks.
He smirked and his head fell back against the arm rest. He closed his eyes, unconcerned with what he'd just professed so offhandedly.
She pushed her glasses back up her Grecian nose and the smile on her lips and the blush on her cheeks invaded her emerald eyes.
The rustle of paperwork resumed.