[It's easier to believe he's really here, that she's real rather than a fragment of a remembered dream. That he truly had family, someone he felt that depth of sentiment. Someone he loved and didn't hurt, didn't leave to be hurt. Didn't let down. For that to be true, for this to be real- he still doesn't quite believe it. But the more they hold on, the more they touch, the easier it becomes.
He squeezes her hands, curls his free one around hers. Anchors himself in the smell of a wood in the first edges of winter. In the warmth of her hands and the tone of her voice.]
no subject
He squeezes her hands, curls his free one around hers. Anchors himself in the smell of a wood in the first edges of winter. In the warmth of her hands and the tone of her voice.]
How do you deal with being free?