Rose Hathaway is many things, but she is very rarely still. Even in sleep, her grace and power are blindingly obvious, but I take the opportunity to watch nevertheless.

Her hair is fanned out on the pillow in a tangled mess.

To simply call it brown would be like saying the sea is only blue; once you look closely, every strand is a different hue, a different story. There's chestnut and cocoa, and golden where the sun catches it. At the base of her neck, the tiny curls are so deep brown, they're almost black.

And I'd know the feeling of her hair between my fingers blindfolded: soft, thick and silky. The thought of her ever cutting it makes my chest ache. Some tendrils trail over her shoulder, and she frowns slightly, sweeping them away with one impatient fumble. I cannot check my smile.

I know the planes of her face by heart, but it's entertaining to observe them once more. From the sweep of her forehead, to the stubborn tip of her chin, to the delicate purple veins in the folds of her eyelids that provide a rare reminder of her vulnerability. I see the pores on the tip of her nose, and I grin when I think how much she hates that.

Every week, it seems she has some new perplexing cosmetic to try, each one more painful than the last. And when that fails, she'll just glare at her reflection the mirror until I'm convinced that they're stronger than I am; I would have fled ages ago under the heat of that gaze. Though I'd never tell her, I'm secretly glad that she can't seem to shake them. Nobody's perfect, though she comes alarmingly close sometimes, and it's those little things that she deems flaws, that make her all the more beautiful. That way, I know she's real. They endear her to me even more.

Her eyelashes are so long that they brush her cheeks, and darkly frame her eyes when they're open, somehow managing to contain the usual spark of a mischievous smile, that's never very far away. I could swear that the colour of her lips is unique in the whole of the universe, and the corners of her mouth tug at my heart.

A collar bone emerges as she takes a breath, fragile as a butterfly's wing beneath the surface of her skin, before vanishing again on the exhale. Both of them stick out charmingly at the crest of each shoulder, and I resist the urge to brush my lips across them.

She's a heavy sleeper, and not much can wake her, but I'm having far too much fun to take the risk.

One arm is folded below her head, and the other rests carelessly on the sheets as if thrown. Though her muscles are relaxed, I can see them lurking, tough and stringy. She can take me down on a good day, which some might find emasculating if they'd never met her. I feel only pride. But it's hard to think of her as a weapon when she's like this.

Observing her gives me a small thrill, simply because I am able to do it. When she was my student, I wouldn't allow it of myself, convinced that it was wrong. And when she tore down even those defences, we couldn't risk anyone else finding out. I can't believe how lucky I am that it worked out, for the most part. This is worth even the terrifying reputations of both her parents. Maybe it's even worth the gruesome death that Abe described in detail, made more chilling by the pleasant smile that accompanied the delivery.

But, while both parents have their place in her features, so much more is singularly Rose.

My gaze brushes over the tiny pit on her chest, barely peeking over the top of her shirt. The pale scar marks the entrance of Tasha's bullet. By no means is it the only one, but it is the most impressive, the most dearly bought. Others occur randomly all over her skin, from tiny, barely-visible scratches, to the larger ones in odd shapes, spread silver and delicate as spider webs. Each one is a badge of honour; a testament to her bravery.

If I crane my neck, I can just catch a glimpse of her exposed feet peeking out from beneath the covers, toes curled in like pale pink seashells, unbelievably innocent. Her feet are almost ridiculously tiny, especially when compared to my own. In fact, I know that they're even smaller than my hands, which was hilarious for the first few minutes after I discovered it, until she elbowed me in the ribs. How can someone so small do so much damage? Maybe I taught her too well.

And though I've trained at discipline my whole life, and the opportunity to observe her is so very rare, my self-control is no longer enough to stop me from reaching out. Then again, she's always had that effect on me. My finger stretches of its own accord, as if magnetically drawn to its target, and I lightly trace a stray freckle on the back of her shoulder.

It's enough to make her stir, and she rolls over and snuggles into my chest. I wrap an arm around her, almost instinctively, and a feeling of rightness just resonates through me. I don't think I could love her any more in this moment. I don't think I could love anyone more than I love her.

She arches her neck, nuzzling her head into the space below my chin where it fits just right, and bestows a small kiss upon my throat.

"Take a picture," she mumbles, and I can feel the sweep of her lips against my skin. "It'll last longer."

Whoops. Busted.

Author's Note

Shout out to those of you who always read and support my little flights-of-fancy-oneshots! Sorry for any mistakes, as this fic isn't proof read. If you enjoyed reading this, or if you actually read these notes at the end, please let me know by leaving a review! Thoughts, comments, and criticism are all most welcome. If you would like to favourite or follow, please feel free! I do post these one shots from time to time,and it might be a good way to keep in the loop, should you so wish.

It's so nice to be able to write something short and uncomplicated, to just take a little of the pressure off. If you're waiting for an update on my other fic, I apologise. If you aren't, I apologise for wasting your time with the previous apology.

All credit for the VA universe and the characters therein goes to Richelle Mead.