look! it's back-up!

Ben’s hand.

+ bonus

🔫 she shot him first, she kissed him first 💋

– Ben, when we touched hands... I saw your future. Just the shape of it, but solid and clear. You will not bow before Snoke. You will turn. I'll help you. I saw it. 

– I saw something too. And because of what I saw... I know that when the moment comes, you will be the one to turn. You'll stand with me.

The funny thing: I’d worried, if anything, that Boris was the one who was a little too affectionate, if affectionate is the right word. The first time he’d turned in bed and draped an arm over my waist, I lay there half-asleep for a moment, not knowing what to do: staring at my old socks on the floor, empty beer bottles, my paperbacked copy of The Red Badge of Courage. At last–embarrassed–I faked a yawn and tried to roll away, but instead he sighed and pulled me closer, with a sleepy, snuggling motion. Shh, Potter, he whispered, into the back of my neck. Is only me. It was weird. Was it weird? It was; and it wasn’t. I’d fallen back to sleep shortly after, lulled by his bitter, beery unwashed smell and his breath easy in my ear. I was aware I couldn’t explain it without making it sound like more than it was. On nights when I woke strangled with fear there he was, catching me when I started up terrified from the bed, pulling me back in the covers beside him, muttering in nonsense Polish, his voice throaty and strange with sleep. We’d drowse off in each other’s arms, listening to music from my iPod (Thelonious Monk, The Velvet Underground, music my mother had liked) and sometimes wake clutching each other like castaways or much younger children.

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt // The Goldfinch (2019) dir. John Crowley

“Your hair is winter fire January embers My heart burns there, too.”