[For a minute, she closes her eyes and just...drifts, content to be where she is and for once finding it possible to just let go of her usual train of thought — where she is, how things feel, the glittering array of stimuli to focus on and memorize and try to make sense of — and stand, quietly, with his arms around her. For a minute, that's all it is: warmth, and safety, and the feeling of being surrounded — no, enveloped — no, encompassed by his embrace and his love.
Because he loves her.
It's Christmas, and he loves her.
You took something of mine, he'd said, and she'd known what he meant. But now, suddenly, she's not so certain of that anymore. After all, it's starting to feel as though he's made off with something of hers, too.]
Don't let go.
[It slips out, soft like a sigh against his shoulder, and she doesn't regret it or second-guess it, or wonder if she'd meant to say something different.]
no subject
Because he loves her.
It's Christmas, and he loves her.
You took something of mine, he'd said, and she'd known what he meant. But now, suddenly, she's not so certain of that anymore. After all, it's starting to feel as though he's made off with something of hers, too.]
Don't let go.
[It slips out, soft like a sigh against his shoulder, and she doesn't regret it or second-guess it, or wonder if she'd meant to say something different.]