The moment is a precious thing, and he cherishes it. In the wake of the extremity of emotions they have felt in the last few hours—agony, loss, relief—this quiet, even when laced with the inevitable pain, is not anything but pure. So he cradles it close and touches her gently as though she might melt in the rain. He talks low, his voice rumbling in his chest, and the shadows that he pulls over them are soft, muted.
She forgives him for the children that he could never bring himself to apologize for, and he just smiles into her touch—not asking for her to carry more of the burden, dive deeper into it than necessary. Instead he turns his face toward the sunrise of ‘we,’ feeling the promise of it like a kiss of summer on his bones.
“You didn’t need anyone to save you,” he whispers. “You never have.” Whatever part he had played in bringing her back had only been because of who she was—of her own strength. He hadn’t forced her to do anything. She was just who she was and she had managed to survive…well, everything. Everything that life had thrown at her. All of the challenges and the losses and the obstacle to happiness.
When he thinks of it, the sense of awe could take him to his knees.
But he still smiles at her and then, because he can and that in and of itself is still a miracle, he pulls her close, burying his head into her neck and breathing in slowly. “Whatever happens next,” he says against her, relishing the way that she smells so bright and feminine and distinctly her this close. Had he dreamt of this before? Had he ever allowed himself to imagine what she would feel like this?
“Whatever happens, it will be worth it, for these moments alone.”
so as our grief falls flat and hollow upon a billion blooded seas
all our worst ideas are borrowed (you do and don't belong to me)
@Mazikeen