Author's Note: A fluffy drabble. x)
002. Gunshot
In the darkness, he traces what remains of the circle on her back. His fingers work gently against her skin, taking care not to wake her. Though she stirs every so often, she doesn't wake; calm and silence remains harboured in a port of warmth and safety. His fingers leave her skin momentarily as he shifts his arm and wraps it around her middle. Her body is warm against his, and her hair smells of soap. He used to think she'd smell of firearms, but she doesn't. Her scent is sweet and comforting. As he drifts into sleep, still gripping her tightly, the sound of every single gunshot he's ever heard fades away, replaced with her voice, urging him to sleep, and to dream. So he does.