Breathe.
«I need a minute.»
That's all it took to make his heart skip a beat. Every sound, every moving person, every whisper around them became aloof.
Don't overthink it.
Does she really need a minute? Maybe she's just asking for some time alone. She's exhausted, and disappointed, and angry. Who could blame her?
Yet he can't help but feeling like the world around them is spinning. Those four words have brought him back to easier, yet complicated, times. What is he supposed to do now?
The great Olivia Pope is braking down. She's vulnerable and tired.
And he's staring at her. Paralyzed. He just wants to wrap his arms around her and show her that everything's going to work out just fine.
Is he reading too much into it?
Maybe he should just turn around and leave. What if she doesn't remember. After all she's moved on, they've moved on. And what are these minutes if not details in their intricate and complex relationship?
He's always thought he was a hopeless romantic, he actually started to believe it after his ex wife's remarks. Was she right? He can't let go of anything, every single moment spent with the love of his life is engraved in his heart and mind, every single detail of her body or expression of her face. Her scent, the softness of her curls, the hardly visible dimples at the bottom of her spine, her soft snores vibrating through his chest at night.
Just leave her alone. Don't get your hopes up.
But then she's looking at him. He's seeing her.
Oh.
His breath catches.
She needs a minute. She's back, she's letting him in.
It's not awkward; they're gravitating towards each other as if it's the most natural thing for them. And it is.
And then she drops her head on his chest. Suddenly he's back on his first campaign trail, holding his breath in an empty hallway. Falling in love all over again.
What now?
Does she realize where they really are? Is she going to snap back to her guarded self?
Just do something.
Home. Something's bringing him back home. He can't really tell what it is at first, but then it downs on him. Of course. He used to fall asleep every night with her head on his chest, breathing her in. Her scent is all too familiar.
He can't let this moment end. He's not ready to give her up just yet.
Do it.
He lifts his right hand and places it on the nape of her neck, gently; he doesn't want to scare her away. He rests his left one on the small of her back.
She remains still. No signs of running away.
Finally, he's able to breathe again.
He can feel her breath slowing down too, her whole body relaxing under his touch. She's giving in. Her arms are moving, slowly. She hesitates.
Don't rush it.
He feels the gentlest pressure on his back, her arms circling him. Tears are threatening to spill out of his eyes, a lump is forming in his throat.
They're finally back where they belong, two hearts beating as one hoping for one minute to last forever.