Work Text:
Leaning across, Clara snagged his glasses from the bedside table. The lighting in here really wasn’t great for reading. Adding a trip to IKEA to her (their) imagined, weekend to do list. Peremptorily silencing the argument in her head. She wasn’t about to admit that there could conceivably be a problem with her eyesight, no, not her. Malcolm would never notice (the man who saw everything).
Waking, lips pressed against her nose, fingers tenderly pushing strands of hair from her face, lifting glasses askew from her cheek. Eyes meeting hers, stare penetrating, words unsaid.
Nope, eyesight absolutely not an issue.