He considers her carefully.

Physically, she's fine. Her feet drag and she minimizes the sway of her hips when she walks, but she's alive.

When she sits, her legs are tucked under her body, as if making herself smaller will contain the wreckage and make the levees hold a little longer.

Her arms are almost always clamped to her chest. Jacob can't tell if she's holding herself in or keeping everybody else out. Maybe she does it so she'll notice if she stops breathing. Not that she'd do anything about it.

When her arms aren't wrapped around the epicenter, the impact site, her fingers are tangled in her hair. When she thinks he's not looking, she pulls. She needs to uproot something, let something out. He thinks she secretly wants him to see.

Is this what she dreamed of when she was little? Is this what love looks like to her?

They must have different definitions of the word. Jacob didn't even know he had one for it. He figures it's got something to do with the way her pain feels a lot like it's his, the way he wants to wrap himself around her until she's ready to let go.

He'll let her stand on her own. He just hopes it's next to him.

He wants to give her body options, to see her hips move again, to feel her arms around him. Maybe she could learn to put her lips on his, find that pain and sleep aren't the only reasons people close their eyes.