He held her as she cried, gently running his fingers through her long curls. The dark red strands reminded him disturbingly of blood trickling between his fingers, over his hands and onto the arm of the sofa. He tightened his hold on her as another sob wracked her small frame, attempting to forget the morbid turn his thoughts had taken. She needed him now, and he would give her this – he would give her anything, even if it was just as simple as someone to hold her as she completely broke down, and as difficult as being there to put the pieces back together.
They stayed like that for what could have been hours or mere minutes, but felt like an eternity and a second all at once; time had ceased to exist in the little safe haven that they had created in the middle of an ongoing war. He could tell by the even puffs of air tickling his neck that she had fallen asleep, and he was determined not to wake her. They were both plagued by nightmares – anyone in their line of work would be – and so a peaceful sleep was a rare occurrence.
Ever so carefully, he manoeuvred her head onto the arm of the sofa, so that he was looking down at her tear-stained face and her hair was hanging over the arm of the sofa. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, her nose was running slightly, there were black lines of mascara running down her cheeks, her hair was in complete disarray, and there was still the occasional hitch in her breathing, but she was still the most beautiful thing that he had ever seen.
She would allow no one else to ever see her like this, and he loved her all the more for it.
