She clings to him in her sleep like a child, vulnerable and weak but protected in his arms. Her hand rests comfortably on his chest, right next to her face, where it belongs. She can feel the rise and fall of his breathing, and she is grateful for every ounce of oxygen that pumps through him as her heartbeat falls in time with his. Her eyes are closed, but she can see every detail of his flawed existence. His Roman nose, slightly crooked from the time he broke it in a fist fight back in the fourth grade; it never did heal quite right. His lips - she knew those lips better than her own - with the small freckle that marred the right edge of the upper. His hair, messy by her own hands, and lying every which way across his head, but still managing to look more presentable than her own. His arms, wrapped around her tight. They aren't particularly muscular, but they're much larger than her own and she feels safe in them. She can feel the heat of his body on hers, how it mingles with her own in an uncomfortable, sweaty sort of warmth that she wouldn't trade for all the sunny days in the world. She lifts her head just slightly to brush her lips against his chin, not able to help the smile that flits its way across her cheeks. She opens her eyes at last, unsatisfied now with the mere thought of him.
She shivers and rolls over.
It is cold, and she is alone.
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