Note: A short drabble after being prompted with the word 'skin'.
Claire's eyes are half lidded when Sawyer enters the room. She is sprawled on the bed, blonde hair fanning out beneath her head like a halo. Her lips are red and swollen, parted slightly, her chest rising and falling rhythmically.
"He's yours," she says, her voice sounding smooth despite the tears he knows she's cried.
"I know."
"Please," she says next, tears welling up in her blue eyes. Whispers, "please, please, please."
He drops his keys on the dresser, resting one knee on the bed too. Sinking down next to her, he pulls her close. Murmurs a 'so sorry' against her ear, his stubble tickling the lobe.
Claire turns in towards him, curling against his torso. She cries openly, her eyes growing redder while he continues to whisper how sorry he is. When she stops, breath still hitching sporadically, he presses a hand against the skin of her tummy gently. The skin is stretched now, growing, growing with their baby.
Sawyer wonders what it would be like if this wasn't his baby, if it were anyone else's. Things would be different then. Claire would be happy, could be with the man she loves. If it were anyone besides him. But it is his. It is his and it is hers and there's no changing that now. He wonders if it'll look like him, this baby, or if it'll have Claire's eyes and her smile, her powder white skin.
He is scared, but there is no way he is leaving her now. With his hand splayed on the skin of her stomach, he can feel their child move and is not sorry.
Sawyer is not sorry they slept together (more than once), nor is he sorry Charlie has left her because of it. He is not sorry Charlie is not the father, nor is he sorry for Charlie's relapse.
He is sorry for Claire's tears. Sorry for her red, trembling lips and her shaking hands.
But not sorry for touching her skin. And never sorry for wanting to keep his hand there forever.