Consequences

Chapter 25: Comfort and …

God rest ye merry hippogriffs
Let nothing you dismay
Remember Christmas is to you
Rabbits, ferrets and hay …

Their little bodies cr-un-ching
In…

Gawd, how did it go?

In -something- something- lay
Oh tidings of comfort and joy…

Why can't I remember that line? Perhaps it was bloody ag-on-ay, not lay? Or was that a different verse? There were three more verses--most of them quite revolting. He'd sing it while Molly was cooking just to annoy. I wish he'd written it down.

Perhaps I'll just hum it.

Went to midnight mass last night, in Huntingdon, at the old church where I used to go with Gran. Not quite sure why; she's been gone since March but it was Christmas Eve and it just seemed like the right thing to do. It was odd though, being there without her. Sitting by myself amongst the Muggles and their half-asleep children. Don't know why people bring children to Midnight Mass. But then, Gran always took me. I still love the memory, curling up on the pew beside her wrapped in her coat; the smell her perfume mixed with cedar incense, listening to the old priest ramble on in Latin. Why don't they do it in Latin anymore? Went to see her afterward; poured a bottle of her favourite sherry onto the frosted grass. She'd've told me it was a waste.

I fluff the cushions on the sofa, pick up the remnants of my dinner, and drop the scraps into Simon's dish. He bounds over enthusiastically but then, turns his nose up and walks away. Apparently, he doesn't like turkey curry. Still, I did. There's a new takeaway at the end of the road. It's rather good. Perhaps I'll have to start a new tradition.

Don't know why he won't eat the curry; he eats mince pies.

Mum loaded me up with mince pies, butter tarts and a large wedge of Christmas cake this morning after breakfast. I really don't like Christmas cake and she knows this but she insisted on me having it anyway. I hate mixed peel. I'll give it to Kelly tomorrow.

I finally stop and look around my flat, realising there is nothing left for me to do.
Everything has been organised, and arranged; it's clean and tidy. In fact it hasn't looked like this … It's never looked like this.

It was ready two weeks ago. I received an owl telling me I could move back in. It is nice to be back home, to be back here in London. And I was surprised that, although it's so much different now, it still feels like home. The walls are a different shade. The kitchen is gorgeous; I'm rather afraid to use it. And I now have hardwood instead of carpet. They gave me the option but I thought hardwood would be easier to keep clean, especially since I now have a pet. Speaking of which, he's asleep upside down on the sofa at the moment, happily spreading his little black and white lint everywhere. New sofa, new chair. Mum hates them. We went shopping last week with the rather generous budget from my insurance. She thought I should get something chic and ultra-modern. I instead opted for comfortable and actually, quite like what I used to have, only not thirty years old and from my grandparents' garage. This is a sofabed too so I can actually have guests; almost like a grown-up.

I plonk myself down beside Simon, run my hands through my hair and stare once more at the package on the table. It came about an hour or so ago. Purple paper with little drawings of silver bells all over it. The bells were tinkling softly up until about ten minutes ago. Charm must've worn off; it's almost ten and I suppose I should have opened it by now. But instead, I've just been considering it. I have read the card. I did that only a short time ago, even though I'd already guessed who it was from. It's a nice card; simple, reverse colours to the paper. I open it up on the table in front of me again now and read his neat handwriting.

Dear Tonks,
Thought you might like to have this. Happy Christmas. Best Wishes for the New Year.
R.J. Lupin.

R.J. Lupin? Like I wouldn't know who he was if he'd just written Remus?

I touch the pretty paper again, run my finger up the seam.

Just open it.

Carefully, I slide my finger under the tape; it crackles a bit as it comes apart from the paper and again at the ends. Don't know why I'm so careful with wrapping paper--I never keep it. It falls open and I help it the rest of the way, revealing a very old book--a big, leather bound book with much faded gilt edging. Not just any book. The book. The book I fell asleep reading the night of his transformation. The book he would read to me from on the nights I shared his bed. I feel a severe tightening in my chest and have to draw my breath deeply. It's lovely. I find I'm still holding my breath as I open the cover and let my fingers turn the pages: lovely script and beautifully painted plates. This book is precious to him, I know that, and the fact that he's given it to me is both flattering and scary. I haven't seen him for over six weeks now. I hope he's all right. Hope he's at Molly's. She said he was coming. She tried to get me to go as well. But I just couldn't do that; too many people, too many questions.

The knock at the front door makes me jump.

Who could that be? My parents perhaps, checking up on me? Father Christmas? I pick my wand up off the coffee table and make my way to the door, not sure what to expect.

I am greeted by a fir tree; pine needles everywhere. I can't see anything else.
There’s a dark shadow behind it--I grip the handle of my wand more tightly but it's mainly as a precaution; I'm quite sure I'm in no real danger here. Death Eaters never normally bring foliage.

'Who--' I begin.

'Fuck, Nymph, invite me in, I'm freezing my bollocks off.'

'Charlie?”

'Yes, Charlie.'

'What are you doing here?'

'I'm bringing you a ruddy tree. Let me in so I can spread some fucking Christmas cheer, would you?'

Laughing, I step back from the door and Charlie pushes the tree through the doorway. It's not a tall tree, not even as tall as he is, but rather fat. Best kind of tree to have, really. It's not until he gets through the door that I am aware that he is also in possession of a rucksack and two plastic carrier bags. He drops the bags almost immediately upon entering and, pushing the tree at me, shrugs the rucksack off his shoulders. He's soaking wet.

'Sorry, didn't realise it was raining.'

'For about an hour now. Actually, it's more like sleet--bloody cold.'

Raising my wand, I send a drying charm his way, followed by a warming one. He grins at me. 'Cheers. Now where do you want your tree?'

*
The tree stands in the corner between the front door and the one leading to my bedroom. Charlie also brought decorations: Muggle lights and tinsel. But he's bought far too many lights so I only use the white ones on the tree, choosing to hang the red in the windows of my kitchen and bedroom. Place looks rather festive actually.

The shop was apparently out of most everything else though, so Charlie's sitting in front of my fire drinking lager and supervising a needle as it threads popcorn onto a red string. Seems like a waste of popcorn to me but Charlie insists that's what they do in North America. Apparently, he has this friend from Canada who showed him how it's done. 'Friend, eh?' was all I said to this. Charlie just grinned and ignored me.

As for me, I do my own version of ornament replacement--threading little, tightly rolled balls of leftover wrapping paper onto my string. Gran taught me how to do it when I was little but mine never did come out as nicely as hers did. They still don't, though I am getting better. Still, by the time we're both finished the tree does look quite nice. Charlie and I settle ourselves down on the sofa with our drinks and a plate of mince pies to admire our handiwork.

I love mulled wine but I've probably made far too much for just two people, especially since one of us is drinking lager. But I tell myself it is a cold night and it does make my flat smell lovely. I've filled a large goblet for myself and I send more logs into the fire and wrap the large chocolate throw over my knees. Charlie pulls some of the blanket over himself as well and leans into me a bit.

We sit in silence for a moment before I reach up and run my fingers through that lovely ginger hair of his. He grins at me briefly before settling himself in the corner, turning to face me.

'So … ' he begins, 'how are you, Nymph?'

'Work's a bit of a mad house. Psychotically busy and frustrating too. Some days it seems like we're not getting anywhere, like we're going in circles. Two steps forward one step back sort of thing.'

'I see.' Charlie nods. 'But how are you?'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, you're here; on your own; on Christmas. Now normally, by now…' he checks his watch, '…you'd have your Christmas hair and you and your cousin Martin would be trolleyed, playing Scrabble in the front window and abnoxiously screaming Christmas carols to anyone that dare venture out onto the streets.'

He makes me laugh. He's right, of course, and I briefly wonder how he knows that but then I remember that he's joined us before.

'So how are you?' he continues, picking up a mince pie. 'And you can't say “all right”.'

'I'm … But I am all right. Not spectacular or anything but all right. I just wanted a quiet Christmas. There are too many people at my uncle's house today. Can you--'

'I'm a Weasley, we specialise in too many people in one house. You're not having any?' He waves his mince pie at me.

'I've had nine.'

Charlie chuckles. 'Fair enough. And I can understand the need for a bit of space. Especially since you've been working so much lately. I mean we've hardly spoken in weeks.'

'We have--'

'I mean just you and me, without Bill or Mum or the others. Just the two of us.'

'Suppose not, then.'

Charlie puts his arm around me. His hand is pushing my shoulder, gently nudging me to lean on him, which I do most gratefully. I feel his fingertips against my temple and I shut my eyes and rest my head on his shoulder.

'What happened with Remus?' he asks.

'What do you mean?'

'The last time I saw you. The night you were so upset. You never said.'

I shrug. 'He just felt it necessary to remind me what a horrible person he is and how I'm so much better off without him.'

'Thinks if he tells you enough times you might believe it?'

'Something like that..'

Charlie nods. 'Why did he need to remind you?' he asks softly. 'Just that you sent me a rather cryptic owl. And--'

'Sorry about that.'

'Said that you wanted to speak to me; that something had happened but you never said what. And then the next time I see you, you can't stop crying and you leave before I wake up. And I … I haven't had much of a chance to talk to you since then.'

I shake my head, suddenly realising I've probably had him quite worried. 'Sorry, I--I did want to talk to you.'

'About what?'

'You know, Hallowe'en …'

'I am familiar with the holiday.'

'I ran in to Remus Hallowe'en night.'

'Okay… and …'

'And November first was the full moon, wasn't it?' I don't look at him now just stare into the fire.

'And you were together?' Charlie asks, a sudden sober tone in his voice.

'Yes.'

'How was it?' There is nothing vulgar or crude about his question. I look up from the flames to find his eyes fixed upon me. He's worried about me, I know that, and I wish he weren't.

'Wasn't great,' I reply. 'Very different.'

'Scary?'

'A little; how--'

'I've been reading.' Charlie answers a question I didn't ask. 'Since the last time we spoke about this. Best to know the facts.'

I just nod. He's been researching for me?

'So…' Charlie continues, 'bit scary?'

'Again I nod. 'Yes.'

'Was he violent?'

'Aggressive, yes; I wouldn't go as far as to say violent.'

'Just that physical violence has been recorded in a number of cases.'

'How many cases?'

'All of them. Anything from rough sex to blood letting.'

I nod but I don't know what else I can say. Funny, ‘cos that night all I wanted to do was tell Charlie everything.

'Did he hurt you?'

He's staring right at me, I know he is. I can feel his gaze on the side of my face without even having to look up. His embrace is tighter now and I know it was a hard question for him to ask.

Also know I can't honestly answer it. Not with him looking at me, so instead, I choose to shake my head and concentrate on my hands.

'Good,' he says, although his tone seems thoroughly unconvinced. 'Was he taking Wolfsbane?'

'I don't know.' I'd never actually thought about that. 'Would it make a difference?'

'Yes. If he wasn't taking it, things can only get better if he does. And, well … if he was taking it then … they'd've been worse if he wasn't.'

Thanks for the comforting thought, Charlie.

'I thought you said they have parties, that they have sex--'

'Yes, I did, and they do. They have feasts; they are all well fed. And there is lots of alcohol. Now in ordinary men and wizards, alcohol has been known to heighten aggression. In werewolves it has the opposite effect. It quells it. It also has the added benefit of making Muggle women and witches less inhibited and more prone to self-blame. Please remember, anything that happens when you're with a werewolf is him, not you.'

I hear what he's saying but he wasn't there. I pushed. I know I did.

'Just thought I could handle it,' I find myself saying.

'And you couldn't.' His hand is in my hair again.

'Not the way I would have liked to.'

He nods.

'I mean it wasn't all bad.' I feel it necessary to add, 'Not horrible or anything, in fact, some of it was pretty damn good and--'

I hear him chuckle against my ear. 'Not ready to hear about that,' he says in a good-natured tone and kisses my cheek. 'Besides, if one of your ex-boyfriends was too much for you in bed I would really have liked it to be me.'

At that I have to laugh. 'I dunno, you're all right..'

'Don't tease. Am I at least in the top five?'

'Charlie, there haven't even been five.'

Now he's laughing at me. 'Seriously?'

I nod.

'Aren't you the good girl. Well, you know we could--' he nods toward my bedroom, 'just for old times’ sake. Christen the new bed… Perhaps give me a chance to get my game up.'

I shake my head, laughing. 'No. No, we couldn't.'

'You're right. Not a good idea. Besides, Mum would probably Apparate and then where would we be?'

I instantly feel heat in my face and I know I'm blushing just at the reminder of the ridiculously embarrassing way I first met his mother. No wonder she disliked me for so long.

'Still makes you blush.' Charlie laughs.

'Yes, and by rights it should make you blush.'

'Doesn't. Mum and Dad had more reason to be embarrassed than we did. There are reasons you're supposed to Apparate outside the front door.'

'Very good reasons.' I take another long sip of my wine and survey the plate of mince pies. Should I make it an even ten?

'So how do I rank?' He just can't let it go.

'Not saying.'

'Come on, Nymph.'

'Why, are you going to have cards made up?'

'Maybe. Come on. It's Christmas.'

'All right, you're in my top two.'

'Really?'

'Yes, Charlie. You're an incredible shag and you have a huge prick. Happy?'

'Yes.' He squeezes me tightly and kisses my temple. I sip my wine and smile to myself. After a time though, he whispers in my ear again, 'No Hippogriff though, am I?'

'Just shut up.'

*

He left about twenty minutes ago after, well … making my Christmas. It was nice to have a little company. Company that doesn't ask too many questions, that doesn't expect me to act all festive or even happy.

I really should just go to bed but instead I'm reading, flipping the musty pages of the book Remus gave me, stopping on Tennyson's “The Lady of Shallot.” About an impossible love and a terrible curse. Really, I shouldn't be so obvious—even in my reading—but it's one of my favourite poems. Sad but beautiful, and I sip my wine, shut my eyes and just listen to the fire crackle and the rain on the windows. Floating in a boat down the river to Camelot wouldn't be a bad way to go. Dead romantic. I'm sleepy.

I almost miss the knock.

Charlie again? I glance at my watch and slowly pull myself off the sofa; it's half twelve.

To my surprise Remus turns toward me as I open the door. His hair, his clothes; he's completely sodden from the rain. Looks as though he walked here. But of course, he didn't. Not if he were at Molly's anyway. How long has he been standing outside?

'Hi,' he says softly.

'Hello,' I reply.

'Molly.' He pushes a tin foil wrapped plate into my hands. 'I was at the Burrow for Christmas dinner and Molly… Well, in case you … She knows you don't have Mrs Fuller to feed you anymore.'

I nod, letting my fingers splash in the little drops of water atop the tin foil; it's still warm. 'Tell Molly thank you. But I couldn't eat another thing tonight. Mum saw to that.'

'So you went to your family today?' he asks.

'No. No, I didn't.' He doesn't say anything else and neither do I. I really want him to just tell me why he's here. To deliver food from Molly? Or did she send it along because she knew he was coming?

I glance up at him. He just stands there letting the rain plaster his hair down even further. I shiver in the night air. I'd like to shut the door, but … 'Come in, Remus, you're soaking wet.' The words leave my mouth involuntarily; I'd like to have thought about it a little more but I can't let him catch his death.

I turn from my door and walk away, slipping into my kitchen without even a glance backward. I hear him close the door behind himself. Hear him mutter a drying charm. I slip Molly's plate into the larder, take a clay goblet down from my cupboard and place it on the immaculate new worktop; I just stare at it for a bit. How smart was it that I let him in?

'Place looks nice,' I hear him call from the sitting room.

'Thank you,' I reply automatically.

'What story were you reading?'

‘“The Lady of Shallot”.' For some reason I had to think about that and it gets me moving again. I fill the goblet with hot wine, take a deep breath and head back into my sitting room.

'Wine?' I ask, handing him the goblet.

'Cheers.' He takes it from me with an awkward smile.

Determined to keep this casual, I pull the blanket off the back of the sofa and slide back down into my spot, picking my own goblet up again. 'The book is beautiful. Thank you. It was very nice of you.'

He smiles at me again. 'Thank you for my present. I haven't had the chance to open it yet, but—'

'Hope you like it.'

'I'm sure I will,' he replies.

And we sit in silence. Just sipping our drinks, listening to the fire again. Isn't there anything more to say?

'So… You didn't see your family at all?' Remus found something.

'Well, I went to Mum and Dad's for breakfast this morning. They'd've come here if I didn't, so I had to.... Mum loaded me up with food and drink, as per usual. But I didn't do the family Christmas thing over at my Uncle's.'

'Why not?'

Too loud. Too many people. My little cousins will want me to change my hair or my nose. They'll want to know why I can't...

'Just not in the mood, really,' I reply. That sums it up. 'First year without Gran, first year ... It's just too much...'

Silence again. I'd rather like to just wrap up in this blanket and lie down. I don't mind if he stays. In fact, I'd like him to. I like that he's here. I know that he's warm and dry and that he's safe. He can just watch over me while I sleep… For a moment I lose myself in that thought. But that wouldn't be very hospitable of me, would it? So I scrub my hands over my face to stifle the yawn and turn back toward him.

'So how are you, Remus?'

'I'm well. Had a lovely dinner at the Burrow. Everyone sends their love.'

He's lying. He's not well. He's thinner; his hair, drying rapidly in the warm room, is greyer than the last time I saw him. His eyes are bloodshot. And I vaguely wonder how many glasses of wine he had at the Burrow in preparation for coming here.

'How are they?' I ask instead. 'How's Harry?'

'He's well, all things considered.'

All things considered… Like the fact that he doesn't have family to go to. The fact that Sirius is dead. I can't help but feel that familiar nausea, sharp pain in my chest. There are so many things I wish differently.

The noise draws my attention as he slides his empty goblet down onto the coffee table.

'There's more, if you like. I made a whole pot.'

'No. Thank you.' He begins to get to his feet. 'I've a long journey tomorrow. I really should be going. Just thought I'd stop by, say hello.'

I nod again. Well, that was far less disasterous than last time. In fact, it was rather nice. I walk with him to the door. He's about to reach for his coat but instead he turns to me.

'Happy Christmas, Tonks.'

'Happy Christmas,' I reply. Is this how we are going to leave it this time? I can't help but feel nervous and I'm not sure why.

He gives me a bit of an odd smile and opens his arms to me. It's strange--like when you're a kid and you're asked to hug a relative you don't know. That kind of awkward, not sure how…

But then I step forward into his embrace and feel his arms close around me. I'm instantly ten degrees warmer. Melting. All the safe-guards, all the barriers I've put up toward him in the past weeks are gone and I'm suddenly raw again. I should've just shaken his hand. It's too late now. And I find myself resting my head against his chest. Another mistake. His heart is beating fast and I let the scent of him fill me as I wrap my arms around him. It should have been a handshake. His fingers slip under the hem of my tee shirt. I feel them dance across my lower back, just lightly at first, but heavier by the second. I look up at him, try and gauge his intent, but he won't look at me.

And I'm quite sure he'll step back any moment. That he'll admonish me with another mini-lecture, another reason why this doesn't work. Then he'll leave. It's routine now, isn't it? Leaving is what he does. Until the next time. Then it'll start again.

But he doesn't step back; his fingers continue to play and suddenly, without warning, he kisses me. He kisses me. For a moment I'm not sure what to do. But my body takes over where my mind is failing and I slide my arms around his neck, open my mouth to his. His lips are so lovely and he's hot from the wine and … I just can't help myself.

I feel his hands slide down over my backside and he's pulling me closer, lifting me against his body, into his arms. Threading my fingers through his hair, I deepen our kiss and he's moving. I let my eyes open to a brief glimpse of my Christmas tree as he carries me to my bedroom.

He lets me slide slowly down his body when we reach my bed and I kneel on the mattress. He's just staring at me in the dim light of the room; the red glow of the faery lights makes his look utterly feral. I find myself lost in that look. I don't dare break our connection, even as I grip the hem and pull my tee shirt over my head. I watch his jaw clench and his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallows hard, but his eyes never leave me. His hands though… He hesitates…

Please don't walk away.

But he doesn't walk away. And I shut my eyes as his fingers move up my sides. He's barely touching me but he's making me shake. His hands caress my breasts and I pull myself closer to him, pulling up his jumper and untucking his shirt. He does step back then, but only long enough to tug his shirt and jumper off over his head. I slide my hands up his bare chest, down his arms. Entwining my fingers with his, I pull him down to the mattress with me.

His lips crash down on mine, then on my face, my neck, his hands desperately groping my skin and I tremble at his touch. I kiss his face, his shoulder, his neck, his chest; run my fingers down his sides. His back arches and my hands find the waistband of his trousers, his belt. I feel the cool of the buckle, the warmth of the leather as I unbuckle it, pull it open, undo his flies and slide my hand into the heat of his boxers. He growls against my ear, warm breath sending shivers through me as I push his trousers off his hips. I'm vaguely aware of him pulling the drawstring on my pyjama bottoms but it's not until he's rolling us over, pulling me on top of him, that I realise I'm just not wearing them anymore. He has quite the knack for that. His hands slide up my thighs, fingers kneading into my flesh, and I lay my body over his. I kiss him again, twist my fingers through his hair. I love the way he kisses. I could kiss him all night.

I have kissed him all night …

His hands are on my sides again and he's pulling me forward. I know what he wants. I let myself slide up his body, and dropping my hands to the pillow on either side of his head, I shut my eyes to the sensation of his mouth against my breasts. I kiss his forehead, let my breath wash over his ear. He moans sweetly and rocks his hips toward me. I shift down and capture his mouth, sliding my hand down between us, wrapping my fingers around his ample erection. His fingers dig into the skin at my back; his moan is deep and gutteral; his teeth scrape my neck. And I stroke him softly, loving the flare of his nostrils, the way he bites his top lip, draws his breath through his teeth. And I shift my hips, position him at my entrance and slide back down onto him.

His eyes flash open, but just for a moment, and I can feel his whole body tremble. It's amazing. I pause briefly, allowing myself time to catch my breath, time to revel in this before I sit up and begin to move. I watch his face as he clenches his teeth; I play my fingers over his chest, down those little white scars. His hands slide up my thighs, over my arse, up my back and down again. I love just watching him, gauging his reactions as I move--if I shift left or right, if I lean back further, if I take him deeper. He's amazing. Even the shadow on the wall in the warm red glow of the faery lights is lovely to watch--the two of us moving together.

When I look back down at him, he's watching me--dark eyes open, wet lips. I can't read his expression. I don't know if he wants me to say something or do something. Don't know how to react, so I bite my lip and shut my eyes and move faster. Soon his hands grip my arse and he begins to steer a bit, pushing me down further with every stroke. I can hear his breathing, hard and fast and ragged, and I drop forward, finally letting my own release wash over me as he comes.

I let myself fall hot and sticky against his chest. His heart is pounding; his arms move around me, fingers tracing up and down my spine. I listen to his breathing and mine slow to normal and although I really don't want to move, I roll off him to the mattress at his side.

We've not said a word to each other since Happy Christmas.

We still don't. Just lie there in the warm semi-darkness, neither of us willing to break the spell. But it's just occurred to me that I'm going to have to. 'Back in a tick.' I slip out of his arms, pick my dressing gown off the bedpost and pull it on as I head into the bathroom.

Now where the hell did I put it? I pull several bottles down as I search through my potions cupboard for my bottle of Freya's Elixir. I don't remember taking it at the beginning of the month, but if I double dose it now I should be all right. Can't help but think of what Molly would say. Mind you, she was probably hoping things would turn out exactly this way tonight. Did she ever get around to lecturing Remus? Ah, there it is. Knew I had some somewhere ‘cos I chastised myself for buying it last month. Asked myself what was the point. I suppose this was the point. Unscrewing the top, I drink what I consider to be more than enough straight from the bottle, pop it back into the cupboard and close the door. I'm about to head back to bed when something catches my eye--my reflection in the mirror.

My hair.

It's still brown, but … the ends are coloured—red, pink, blue, green, purple and yellow. It seems to shimmer in the dim light of the bathroom. He's changed my hair. I cover my mouth with both hands and mute the smile, stifle the laugh. It's amazing. There's colour!

I stand there for several minutes just staring at it. Part of me tells me not to be so happy. I know it won't last. But, for now, it gives me a bit of hope. Perhaps I'm not quite so useless after all.

Odd that Remus never mentioned it; but as I turn the knob and push the door to the bedroom open, I don't think I will either. I don't want to start an argument; I don't want to ruin this.

His eyes are closed, his body partially covered in my white linen. One arm is curled above his head and the other splayed out to the side--my side. I shrug my dressing gown off my shoulders and slide back into bed, settling into my nook--my head on his shoulder, my hand sliding across his chest. His arms are immediately around me. His embrace is tight but short-lived and I hear him catch his breath, feel his body stiffen, shift.

I don't want you to leave.

But I know that's exactly what he's preparing to do.

'Stay 'til I'm asleep.' When the words leave my lips they're barely above a whisper; at least I said them aloud.

He doesn't reply but I hear him breathe in deeply and exhale slowly, feel him relax back down to the mattress. He presses his lips against my forehead and I know that he's heard me. I'm glad he doesn't argue, just tightens his embrace. And I shift myself a bit more, further across him so that more of my skin is in contact with his. Don't know why I do it. I just want to feel the warmth of his body. I need it. I want to remember what it feels like. Because … I know I can't let it happen again.

*