Work Text:
He holds her.
He doesn’t ask why.
Her shoulders shake softly.
Her face pressed as far into his chest as it can go.
He holds her.
Her fingers grip tightly to the sweater he wore. The material stretching beyond a limit he cared nothing about.
He holds her.
Her shoulder hunched to her ear uncovered by the safety of his chest. Soft brown waves flow over them, cocooning her in space she’d never known to let her down when in search of security from the world.
He holds her.
Her breath warm against the fabric of his sweater leaves him wishing he could remove it, just that one piece, just that one article. Just that one barrier so that it became more personal. Real. That he was there and his warm skin was hers to use for comfort.
He holds her.
She sniffles. Exhales in short breaths. Anxiety.
He pushes her away just long enough to do what he’d wanted. He removes his sweater. His chest covered in a white tee. Her eyes watching in panic and her panicked breaths increased.
He holds her face. His hands glide so that his palms cover her jaw, his fingers slide through the hair at her neck. Her chest rises and falls, rises and falls, rises and falls. Her eyes wide brown orbs. He rests his forehead against hers. Her eyes close.
His forehead touching hers, her nose resting against his, he counts to three and slowly inhales. He counts to three and exhales.
He hears her breathing still in a panic, short bursts of air hitting his lips. He uses his thumbs to gently rub against the sides of her face, softly, calmingly.
She exhales and he tries again.
One, two, three - inhale.
This time he hears her do it. He feels her.
One, two, three - exhale.
Her breath gently falls against his lips and it takes everything in him not to smile with relief.
They complete the same cycle three times more before her breathing returns to normal.
He’s purposely slow about removing his hands from her face.
When he does, she looks at him. Her eyes are red, skin slightly blotchy. Lips a bit swollen from crying.
And she’s beautiful.
He sits back against the sofa. He makes no moves. What happens next is her choice.
As he picks at something nonexistent on his fingernail, he feels the sofa dip. His heart begins to race for a bit, but relief floods through him as she slides next to him, wraps her arm around his middle and lays on his chest.
He takes in the lavender scent at the top of her hair.
And he holds her.