Chapter 5

**The Eve of Truth**

NAZIONALE 51, ROME CITY CENTRE
SUNDAY, MAY 31
18:23 HOURS

He shifted up in bed to get a better look at the spacious bedroom. His ribs ached, his head throbbed, and the wound on his thigh burned. He closed his eyes and opened them again to refocus his vision. He called her name and Marco's. It was then he saw her in the softly dimmed light, sitting on a chair beside the bed.

"Hey," she greeted him with a warm smile.

He let out a heavy sigh he didn't even know he was withholding. She looked ethereal.

"What is it?" she asked, concerned, searching his hand.

But he just stared at her.

"Nicola?" she asked again. "Are you okay?"

His eyes darted to her full lips, the line of her jaw, down her throat, and to that special little place below. The pit of her neck. His lips parted slightly, but nothing came out. He saw then the tendons of her neck tense and stretch, felt her hand touch his cheek and forehead, saw her lips forming words he couldn't quite make out.

"Nicola, say something," she pleaded, and only when he looked at her scared eyes did he manage to snap out of his trance-like state.

"You ..." he whispered. It was all he could say.

"It's okay. You endured a very stressful situation," she rushed to explain and caressed his cheek. "It's normal that you feel disoriented."

He smiled into her palm.

"What?" she asked, half relieved to see him respond.

He shook his head. "I don't feel disoriented."

"What then?" she stared into his dreamy hazel eyes.

"You ... it's you," he simply stated.

Her eyebrows furrowed. What about her? She removed her hand and placed it in her lap. She tried to figure out what he was saying, but she really couldn't understand. But then it hit her. Oh, God. It was her. The way he looked at her when he woke up. She misinterpreted it out of fear that there was or could be something wrong with him. She felt the blood in her cheeks rise, and a familiar warmth enveloped her tired limbs. She refused to look at him.

But he saw her.

He saw the red in her cheeks, her hands resting defiantly in her lap, her conflict, and resolution. He felt her inner battle to resist, stay faithful not only to Mulder but to everything she believed in, her need to be understood, loved, and challenged.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he reopened them, he found hers looking hesitantly at him. That truthful blue that tore his own beliefs into tiny little pieces waiting to be picked up and reassembled into something new.

His hand moved slowly to her right shoulder, and his fingers brushed the smooth material of her robe. Soft and smooth, silk, he guessed. He could feel the warmth of her body through the sewing threads. So gentle, so inviting. He looked at her again and saw streaks of the old tell-tale pain on her face, arising from a life of suffering and sacrifice. She owned that pain long ago.

He hummed. His fingers trailed up her neck, leaving nerves on fire, caressing the edges of her ear and brushing her cheek. She closed her eyes without further thought. Her chest raised and fell with each breath, seeking and refusing his attention. He couldn't stop feeling in awe of her. "Behold, you are beautiful ..." he whispered, his voice soft and soul-touching.

She smiled weakly at first, wetting her lips subconsciously. She knew the words by heart. "Song of Solomon," her voice cracked.

He smiled back, gazing into her eyes. "I could go on."

Her hand found his on its own and brought it to her lips. She kissed the heel of his hand, the heat of her lips sending shivers up his scalp. "I know you could, but there's just as much a woman can take."

He chuckled heartily, remembering his own words when she tended his wounds. And then his face straightened. "I know you don't want this life, but I thank God every day that he dragged you all the way here."

"Oh, Nicola," she sighed and pressed him tightly to her, feeling every bone, every muscle, every heartbeat. "I was so afraid," she whimpered into his neck.

He smoothed her back reassuringly, "I'm here."

She buried her head deeper into the crook of his neck. It was more than she could take. Tears spilled from her eyes, and she sobbed into the thin white cotton of his T-shirt. Her hands slipped around his neck, her fingers tugging and wrinkling the soft fabric.

"Dana," he sighed, his eyes closing in desperation. The last thing he wanted was to make her cry. "Don't cry."

She sobbed even harder. Tears ran uncontrollably down her rosy cheeks. The shock, the fear, the adrenaline - they were finally dissolving. But something else was unfolding as well—the true nature of her feelings for him.

She was sitting half on the bed, half in his lap, when she felt him shift. He lifted her with him despite his injuries, suppressing a groan that threatened to escape his throat. He dissolved her robe, hoping she was dressed beneath but not really caring at this point.

She didn't try to stop him. Her mind was too tired, her limbs battered.

The robe pulled at her feet, revealing her elegant and delicate figure. He didn't know if he was relieved or disappointed that she wore a white top and blue cotton panties underneath. He rearranged the pillows against the headboard and pulled her under the covers with him.

She gasped softly when the side of her thigh met his. He pulled the blankets over them, drawing her closer to him. They were lying in bed propped up against the pillows. She leaned her head against his right shoulder.

"You didn't have any sleep, did you?" he asked her.

She looked at him with tearful eyes, "An hour or so."

"How did you find me?" Despite his abilities, he couldn't quite figure out how they managed to find him in that catacomb.

She exhaled, "I saw you in a dream."

"What?"

She nodded. "Father Gino showed me where you were ... in a manner of speaking."

He was speechless. Even for a man of God, the belief in miracles did not come easy. "I see."

"It was a shock for me as well."

He caressed her shoulder lightly to soothe her but found himself being shocked just as much.

She reached for his hand and intertwined his fingers with hers. "I don't know what's happening ... how a dead person could tell me where to find you in a dream. But it did happen, and I'm just relieved that Mulder insisted on following up that dream."

He smiled briefly. "Where is he?"

"He met with Marco. They are supposed to bring something to eat later."

"What? Nazionale kitchen isn't good enough for them?" he joked.

She smiled. "You know very well why."

"Yeah, I know," he nodded. It was to protect him, hide him from the authorities, his kidnappers, and whoever was behind this mess.

"Marco and Rosa were very helpful," she looked down at their joined hands, "we may have never been able to find you so quickly without them."

Especially, Marco, she thought. She still had trouble believing he had a son.

"Just ask me," he said, looking openly at her.

Her lips pressed into a thin line. It bothered her a lot that he didn't tell her about Marco. "I think it's up to you to explain it."

He sighed. "I was 20, and she was 19. We met during the summer of '89 and became friends. One night she came to me in tears. Her father had a car accident -,"

She cut him off, "Don't. You don't have to explain everything."

"I want to," he replied and looked at her. "I should've told you before."

"Why didn't you?" she asked, hiding the hurt in her voice.

He groaned. "I was afraid of what you would have thought of me."

Oh, one of the oldest fears of modern man. She shook her head. "I've told you about William. You think I wasn't afraid that you would judge me?"

"That was different. You did what you did to protect him," he insisted.

She had to smile at his inability to see how she saw him. She could never judge him for anything.

"Where was I?" He scratched his stubble.

"The car accident," she reminded him.

"Right," he murmured as if he was suddenly transported to that faithful night. "Her father was in a critical condition. She cried in my arms, and I tried so hard to make her feel better. She looked at me with those sincere eyes, and it just happened."

He paused, and she waited.

"I loved her, and I think she loved me, but soon after that night, her parents moved to another town. It had to do something with her father's recovery. We tried to stay in touch, but the distance was overwhelming."

"So she had no idea she was pregnant at that time?" she asked prudently.

He shook his head, "No, she didn't know."

She wanted to ask what happened next but waited. It was clear that something had gone wrong.

His hand squeezed hers as if trying to draw encouragement to go on.

She looked at him and nodded. "It's okay. Go on."

"She died giving birth to Marco," his voice cracked. "She ... she wanted to tell me about Marco once he was born, but she died. Her mother told me that she didn't want to pressure me into anything." He leaned his head against the pillow, tears welling under his closed eyes.

She felt for him. He was shaken and battered from life just as much as she was. "It's alright. It's long gone now," she whispered and kissed his hand, lingering on his smooth skin for a second more than necessary.

He sighed, and looked at her. "I found out only five years ago about Marco."

"Why? What happened after his birth?" she asked, seeing herself in his eyes.

He turned to lie on his side, never breaking eye contact. His left leg found its way between hers. Her lips parted, but he was so calm, utterly oblivious of his move. "She never told her parents who the father was. Only a close friend of hers knew about me," he continued explaining while she tried real hard not to revel in the feeling of his thigh between hers. "They raised Marco on their own, but when he turned 18, he decided to look for his father."

"So ...," she said, a little out of breath, "he just found you?"

"Well, he has his father's genes," he joked, and she chuckled. And then his face grew serious. "He's a remarkable young man."

"Five years ago," she brushed her hair back, "you were already a priest."

"I remember the day we met," he closed his eyes again. "It was a warm day in October. Call it a coincidence, but Father Vincenzo was visiting that day, too. He walked into the kitchen and told me that a young man was standing outside, asking for me."

She watched his face, a lock of his tousled hair falling on his forehead, eyes closed trying to remember every detail, the line of his nose and sculpted lips, the soft wrinkles around the corners of his mouth bearing witness to the passing of time.

"I thought it was someone that father Gino sent to me. He did that from time to time. He said I had a gift that I should use to help young people. So I went out and almost took a step back when I saw him."

She saw pain register on his face. "Why?" she asked without thinking better of it.

"It was like seeing her again," he lowered his voice. "He resembles her so much."

She closed her eyes, feeling overwhelmed, too. So many hours spent thinking of what William looked like, or how he was doing, started to get to her. And for some reason, she always pictured William like a little Fox Mulder.

"He said, 'Hi, I'm Marco', and I knew ... I just knew," he whispered and closed his eyes.

She exhaled heavily.

"You're thinking about William," he said gently and looked at her.

She nodded with tears in the corners of her eyes.

"Do you want me to stop?" he asked.

"No, I want to hear it all," she replied, wiping her eyes.

He touched her cheek, brushing away the tears that escaped her fingers. "I invited him in the house, and he didn't lose any time explaining why he came."

"It must have been a shock," she said quietly.

He closed his eyes again and hummed. "A shock and a blessing," he said, opening his eyes. "I always wanted to have kids. And to learn that all that time I had one ..."

Her lips extended into a meek smile. He liked kids. And she always wanted men who liked kids.

"What was her name?" she interrupted the short silence.

He lifted his brow. "Stella Moretti," he replied, adjusting his head slightly. "Her father was Italian."

"Marco Moretti," she tried to pronounce it correctly.

"Yeah, fits incredibly well in Rome."

"Did he leave England to be with you?" she looked into his watery eyes. She could see them together. Father and son.

"Not exactly," he gazed back, "it was only after his grandparents died, three years ago. Gino helped him enroll in his Ph.D. studies of history, and he decided to stay. We try to make up for lost time, but it's not easy. Very few people know he's my son."

"So, he is a historian, too." A smile escaped her lips.

"And a philosophy grad to my great pleasure. He keeps annoying me about the meaning of life continuously," he groaned.

Her smile widened, "I can't see how that could be an annoyance to you, Professor O'Brien."

He smiled broadly, "Are you making fun of me?"

"No, never," she shook her head, still grinning. "But teaching theology and anthropology at the Pontifical Gregorian University twice a month doesn't exactly give you any ground to complain about Marco's philosophical tendencies."

"Is that right?" he asked, his eyes flashing fiery energy. His hand pressed her harder to him, and he finally realized his leg lay jammed between hers. His eyes darkened, searching hers for an answer.

Her heartbeat fastened. "Nicola," she warned him, though she didn't know anymore what the real danger was.

He swallowed, his jaw tightened. "I see you, Dana. I'm not scared of it."

Oh, God. Why did he have to say things like that? She tried to clear her head, remind herself of who she was. "I see you, too," she did all she could not to falter, "I feel the life in you, but I'm not the one you should live it out with."

His left eye flinched as it always did when a conflict he could not solve arose within him. He lowered his head against hers. "I'm not supposed to live it out with anyone," he whispered, "but I wish to God I could do it with you."

"No," she said firmly. Reason was kicking in, finally. "What would we have if we did that?"

His mouth opened. He watched her, confused for a moment. What would they have? "It's hard to say," he replied after moments of silence, resigned. He disentangled from the grip of her legs, a feeling of cold enveloping his heated skin.

She let him go despite the emptiness that followed, despite the crushing feeling of loneliness. Her eyes followed his retreating body. That was the end of games, she guessed.

"But I still got to do this," he said on a whim and took her face in his hands.

She looked at him with eyes wide, and before she could do anything, his lips pressed hard against hers, heat marrying heat. She froze for a moment, and when she got her bearings back, he was already gone.

"Think of it as an innocent gesture of affection," he said teasingly, his eyes shining with the playfulness of a kid on his favorite playground. Only his rapidly rising and falling chest gave him away.

She couldn't believe him! What was he thinking?! "Nicola!" she raised her voice. "What ...?"

"What?" he repeated. "I just told you what." A grin too big for her liking was plastered on his face.

"You're ..." she couldn't find the words. The soft skin of her lips was still resonating from the unexpected contact.

"Yeah, I've been told that before," he said calmly, looking her in the eye.

"Oh, don't you dare do that now!" she said, outraged. He wasn't going to read her mind now. Not a chance.

"I don't need to, trust me," he countered. "You're displaying clear enough your thoughts.

She glared at him.

"And you look beautiful doing it," he teased on.

Oh, she had it right then.

She shifted, grabbed the pillow under her, and swung towards him.

"Dana!" he lifted his hands to catch the pillow and groaned in pain. "I'm a seriously injured man."

"Is that what you are?" she challenged him, trying to get hold of the pillow, but he was too strong. He found her arms and grasped them firmly.

She wondered many times about that intensity, what it could do, where it could take them. She shivered. It had to be lack of sleep, surely.

There was a seriousness in his gestures she couldn't ignore. He pulled her left hand and turned her so that she landed with her back against his chest and his legs V-ed around her.

She gasped at the feel of his firm muscles.

"Don't you dare wonder about that," he whispered in her ear, making her hair stand up. "It's the way of no return – just like you said."

"I can't control it, Nicola," she whispered back. There was no meaning in hiding it from him. "There's a reason I don't talk about it."

He eased his grip around her waist, his fingers splayed on her belly. "I know, I know," he whispered, nuzzling his nose in her almond-scented hair. "But the fact that you do wonder makes my mind go into deep dark woods."

"Hush, Nicola," she pleaded. It would be so easy to take his hand and wander into that twilight land with him.

He leaned his forehead against her shoulder. "I could exploit my gift."

"What ... do you mean?" she asked, almost afraid.

"I know what you need, how you need it, and when you need it," he whispered into her neck. "The intensity you've been wondering about ... it comes from that knowledge."

The muscles in her belly clenched. "Stop it," she sounded out of breath.

He sighed heavily. "I'm not going there, Dana. I love you too much to do something so manipulative."

Her heart did an involuntary flip-flop. She covered his hand on her belly with her own and leaned fully into him, her head resting against his collarbone. She felt exhausted all of a sudden, even jaded, and the warmth of his body and the feeling of being truly loved lulled her into a sense of complete security.

She wanted to tell him she loved him. She did, but sleep overtook her senses mercilessly. Her forehead fell against the side of his neck, and her muscles yielded under the weight of all the hours unslept.

He leaned back into the pillow and held her in his arms.

NAZIONALE 51, ROME CITY CENTRE
SUNDAY, MAY 31
20:21 HOURS

She was writhing under him with anticipation. Her thoughts, her firmest of beliefs, were collapsing like magnificent palaces into debris. He was hovering above her, his arms and legs around her body. She couldn't see him, lying on her stomach, face pressed into the pillow.

He leaned into her. His torso brushed the sensitive skin of her bare shoulders and back.

She had trouble breathing, focusing, thinking. His hand gently removed the hair standing in his way, exposing the delicate flesh of her neck.

He neared his lips to her left ear, his warm breath caressing the nerve endings and sending shivers in every direction.

Her mouth opened, breathing in the pillow. He was killing her.

His lips touched the warm skin behind her ear and brushed down to her spine.

Her nerves sang with the exquisite sensations that were spreading to her brain and limbs. Her hands clenched the sheet under the pillow furiously.

He placed warm, melting kisses down the path of her spine. She breathed heavily, the pillow acting as a buffer. The fire in her chest started to spread lower.

He reached the end of her spine. Her body curved from pleasure. She waited, feeling the presence of his body everywhere. Her skin was communicating with the lightest touch, faintest whisper, with every dip his body caused on the mattress. He had to be in her head.

He blew on the sensitive spot on the small of her back, sending nerves into electric delirium, causing her to writhe, almost in pain. His lips curved into a smile; she could tell it intuitively.

She was melting; her insides, thoughts, everything was a blur of heat and flushed skin—unspeakable pleasure bordering on sweet pain.

"Please," she begged, her voice a few octaves lower than usual.

His lips slowly neared the sacrum. Her body shifted in anticipation, trying to make contact, but he stopped her movement. This was agony.

He grabbed her left arm and turned her around. There was that fearless intensity in his moves. She faced him.

"Wake up," she heard him say, his voice coaxing her softly out of ... sleep?

Her eyes opened slowly. Where was she?

"Hey," he greeted her, his lips moving against the side of her neck.

She felt groggy. Her flesh ached in a million places.

His hands ran along her arms, and only then did she realize she fell asleep in his arms.

And she dreamed of him. Oh, God.

She ran her hand over her forehead, trying to awake the reasonable side of her.

"I fell asleep," her voice was low, thick.

He kneaded her shoulders lightly, helping the blood flow. "You passed out."

She straightened up, and he let go of her shoulders.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

The deep dark pleasure in her bones was all that was wrong. "Nothing," she tried to sound casual but failed.

"If you say so," he said, unconvinced.

She turned then. Her stare was unforgiving.

"What?" he asked, taken aback.

Her brows furrowed. "You mean you don't know?"

"Know what?" his forehead creased. "Dana?"

She could tell he wasn't lying. Well, he never lied so blatantly, anyway. Apparently, his gift didn't include dream-reading, if such a thing even existed.

Her eyes lit up. "Never mind." She could see how frustrated he suddenly felt.

"No, wait, tell me," he pleaded to her, grasping her shoulder.

"Not a chance," she replied and jumped out of bed.

"Where are you going?!" he protested, unable to move so quickly.

"To the bathroom. Mulder and Marco should be here soon." She looked so composed as she walked to the bathroom. "Oh, and Nicola," she turned to face him, "whining doesn't become you."

He had to close his mouth when she turned away. His shoulders slouched, and he shook his head.

NAZIONALE 51, ROME CITY CENTRE
SUNDAY, MAY 31
20:27 HOURS

She leaned against the washbowl with both her hands. Her eyes were still dazed from the dream, and her head ached from all the conflicting emotions.

"Dammit," she cursed under her breath and opened the faucet. The dream kept playing in her head. She let the cold water gather in her hands and splashed it over her face. Once, twice. The way his body hovered over hers. Stop it! She toweled her face and avoided the mirror.

She heard a phone ringing, his slow footsteps, and a soft knock on the bathroom door.

"Yes?" she hardly recognized her voice.

"It's your mother," he replied.

Mom? She opened the door and took the phone.

"Mom?" she asked, afraid something might be wrong. They talked once a month and agreed that she should call her only if something went wrong.

"Hi, Dana," Margaret Scully greeted her daughter warmly.

"What is it?" Scully asked, concerned, her voice strained.

"You tell me," her mother said calmly.

Scully swallowed hard and sat on the bathroom floor. "What do you mean?"

"Don't pretend. A mother knows when there is something wrong with her children even if they are miles apart," Margaret's voice was firmer now.

"Oh, mom," she burst into tears and spilled her soul out. She told her everything.

"Oh, Dana," Margaret sighed. "It was bound to happen."

Scully sobbed silently, "Why do you say that?"

"You're both stressed and tired, your endeavors go by mostly unseen," she paused, "and you're both far from home and lonely."

"Mulder seems to be just fine with this arrangement," he wiped her eyes.

"But you clearly aren't," Margaret interjected, "and father Nicola, well, he's just a man."

"I'm so tired, mom," her voice was weak.

"I know, sweetheart," Margaret tried to calm her. "I think you should talk to Mulder."

Scully closed her eyes. How could she talk to Mulder about Nicola? "I can't, mom."

"I don't mean about father Nicola. Talk to him about how you feel about him. Do you love him?"

"Yes," she nodded as if she could see her.

"Do you want to be with him?" her mother continued.

She hugged her knees, feeling like a frightened young girl. "I do, but not like this."

Maggie paused for a second. "Dana, the way I see it, nothing is lost yet. But it is a test of your relationship."

Scully sighed heavily. Emotional displays always took a toll on her.

"Don't worry, it's not the end of the world," Margaret soothed her. "It happened to me, too."

"What?" Scully's eyes widened in astonishment.

"I never told anyone," Margaret admitted. "Nothing happened, except for glances, innocent touches, and the occasional hug, but it worked havoc on me."

"When?" Scully asked incredulously.

"You know how we moved a lot. I didn't have a lot of friends. We were in Japan at that time," Margaret sighed.

"Go on," Scully said eagerly.

"I wasn't too thrilled about going to Japan, but it wasn't something your father would decline. He worked a lot, and I spent hours alone with the three of you," she paused again. "There was a void in my life I couldn't quite fill alone."

Scully was stunned. Her mother? "Who was he?"

"A Lieutenant Commander of the U.S. Navy," Margaret replied, her voice softening.

"How ... I mean, where did you meet him? And when? We were always around," Scully asked.

"Not always," her mother reminded her. "I didn't meet with him in secret. I wouldn't do that to your father. In fact, Matthew was a good friend of your father."

"Matthew?!" Scully exclaimed. "You were in love with Matthew?"

Scully remembered the handsome Lieutenant Commander Matthew Crawford. He was already stationed in Japan when they arrived there. Tall, good-humored, quirky. They all adored him.

"We had feelings for each other," she replied, not wanting to make it too big of a deal.

"Dad never knew?"

"There was nothing to know, but I did tell him that Japan was going to damage our marriage."

"What did he say?" Scully asked.

"He understood. The next day he asked to be transferred back to the U.S. as soon as possible."

"What happened to Matthew?" she couldn't help but ask.

"He stayed," Margaret's voice faltered.

"What is it, mom?"

"Just memories, Dana," he reassured her. "I loved your father, but at that time, I felt all the things you are feeling right now."

"But what kind of person am I if I let myself feel these things?" Scully pressed.

Margaret chuckled, "Human."

Scully sighed softly. Always trying to be beyond reproach, Mulder told her once.

"Thank you for telling me, mom," she said then.

"You'll get through this," Margaret reassured her and said her goodbyes.

Scully stood up and walked out of the bathroom. Nicola was resting in bed and going through the reports. She walked to the table.

"Is everything alright?" he asked her.

"You know the answer to that question," she replied, her voice tense. She didn't want to look at him.

"I mean with your mother," he said calmly.

She bit her lip. "She's fine." And then she turned to him. "I'm sorry. I'm feeling a little out of myself with all that's happening."

"It's perfectly normal."

"But you're calm?" she noted.

His eyes clouded with emotion. What did she want him to say? That he was torn, frustrated, hopeless? "Yes."

Her lips curled down in disappointment, and she made a barely visible nod with her chin. Maybe he wasn't that much affected after all.

He looked down at the report and his brows furrowed. "What?"

"What is it?" she asked.

He looked at her in disbelief. "Where did Mulder get these reports?"

"From the local police. Why?" her forehead creased.

"Either they are so badly fabricated to cover up Gino's murderer, or Gino is still alive," he explained, his voice hopeful again.

She walked to him, "How can you tell?"

"Gino's blood is not AB positive. He is 0 negative," he pointed it out on the sheet.

She couldn't believe it. "Are you sure?"

"One hundred percent positive," he replied, looking at the sheet for other discrepancies.

"But Marco saw the body. He knew father Gino," she tried to make sense of it.

"Did he see his face?"

She thought of it. "I just assumed he did."

"Yeah, I thought so," he said and looked at her.

"Did father Gino fake his own death?"

"I don't know," Nicola replied and looked at the sheet again.

"Nicola," she warned him, "I don't need mind-reading powers to know that you're not telling me everything."

He closed his eyes and smiled. There were times when he still forgot how piercingly intelligent she was. He looked at her and sighed. "Do you really want to know what I know?"

What the hell was he saying? "Don't you think it would be a good idea to tell me? Or that I deserve to know at this point?"

He nodded, "Yes, you deserve to know, but that's beside the point. Do you want to know even if it is disturbing and dangerous? Something you can't just walk away from?"

She stared at him. Was he kidding her? She smirked at him. "What do you think I've been doing this whole time ... before we met?"

He nodded again. "I know, but I thought you wouldn't want to get involved in something so dark again."

"It's too late," she countered.

"Than we should wait for Mulder and Marco. They need to know, too," he said and placed the folder on the bed.

TO BE CONTINUED.

"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close."
— Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength while loving someone deeply gives you courage."
— Lao Tzu

"Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood."
― George Orwell, 1984