The "Ends in Y" series is a pentalogy of microfiction stories written by RealityCheckBounced. As the name of the series would imply, the title of each story ends with a y. Together, the stories total 692 words.
She giggled happily as she read the quick note, written in his familiar messy scrawl: I hate that we didn’t get to talk much earlier, but I wanted to make sure you knew how gorgeous you looked today (not that you don’t always look gorgeous). You should wear your hair like that more often; it fits you.
She had been sure her hair was an absolute mess today. It couldn’t rival his perpetually tousled tresses, but she was still terribly unsatisfied with it. Messy may work for him (his hair, his handwriting), but she hadn’t really thought the look suited her.
Now, however, she was considering wearing her hair a little messy more often.
She let her muscles relax as the hot water slipped over her body, cleaning her off. It had rained the night before, leaving the ground wet and muddy, so her morning jog had been particularly dirty today.
As she massaged shampoo into her scalp, she let her mind stray to him. Despite the hot water and soapy suds, there was one thing she realized was impossible to clean: her thoughts of him. She knew he was sitting and waiting for her. Perhaps he was talking to a friend, or reading some homework, his glasses slipping adorably down his nose.
Or maybe he was thinking thoughts about her that were just as dirty as the thoughts she was having about him.
It was incredible, he thought, the way she could make him see red.
Somehow their rows, even about the smallest things, would almost always explode. Most of the time she was calm, as was he, but if you got her angry, Merlin help you. She had a nasty temper when she got angry; maybe it had to do with her red hair.
He knew he wasn’t completely innocent either, and today’s argument was no different. She would push his buttons, and he would push right back. Today had quickly escalated into a terrible shouting match, and now, only a few hours later, he couldn’t even remember what they had fought about.
She would be in their room, still seething, and he would go to apologize for whatever he’d done; it really didn’t matter, anyway. He couldn’t stand having her be angry with him for long, and in the long run he knew it really wasn’t important. And even when she would tell him she accepted his apology, he knew she would still be a little angry.
That was okay, though. The make-up sex was always fantastic.
He had a bit of a sweet tooth. To him, there was simply no match for Honeydukes’ sugary confections, and ever since his first taste of chocolate he’d loved the stuff. She, on the other hand, loved things sour. Her favorite candy was acid pops, a fact she’d informed him of the first time he’d tried to buy her chocolates. From that day on, he’d only buy her the sour candies.
Sometimes, she would indulge his sweet tooth. His birthday celebration always included a sugary, chocolaty cake, and a sweet surprise for later.
He’d decided late at night on his nineteenth birthday that his favorite present to unwrap, however, was her.
Particularly when the wrapping paper was chocolate sauce.
To put it quite simply, they made each other happy.
She had a radiance about her when she smiled that was hard to describe, but she could light up a room brilliantly just by showing off her pearly whites. She was at her best, he thought, when she was smiling, and he loved nothing more than to make her smile. Her smile, he realized, was the only thing that had ever made him feel truly content.
He could always coax her out of a bad mood (a dangerous skill, she often thought) with little more than a grin, a strong embrace, or a gentle kiss. There were moments when she would lean into his arms and feel as if the world was gone, and it was only the two of them. These were the moments she treasured dearly, moments that she felt were nothing more than pure bliss.
They made each other happy.