@herinterface sent: [ stroke ] — sender strokes receiver’s hair as they cuddle in bed
You can’t explain it: there’s something about having a body pressed against your back —warm and soft and firm all at once— that makes you feel like you’re not in an unending battle anymore. —Not just any body, but hers; you know the sound of her breaths and the shape of her ribcage and the measure of her grip blindfolded, drugged, or thrown off by a thousand simulations. Focusing on all that... you could almost call it certainty.
The sigh leaves your chest before you even know it’s there.
You muscles unwind, and you think you can actually close your eyes without the prickling feeling crawling up your back that’s bare and turned to the room.
You don’t know what it is about her that makes your body stand down when you’ve been at war for months, or why feeling her hand in your hair convinces you that it’s just you and her, alone— no one watching you under a microscope. What you know is that coming back this compromised may have been a mistake you’d never have made before, but somehow, trusting yourself has become less important than making sure she makes it out of this alive. You know, from experience, that that’s something you can definitely do.
You feel the fabric of her shirt shift against your back, and you know she’s thinking about something, but you don’t move away and she doesn’t ask. The details aren’t important now. Seems like she agrees.
( You’re not sure when the last time you properly slept was, but you think you finally get when people say safe is a feeling. )
















