Author's Note:

Physical intimacy in this chapter! At last! So, in the interest of letting you guys in on both Holly and Benedict's thoughts simultaneously, I've decided to tell this chapter from a third person point of view. Hope it doesn't throw anybody off too badly... It'll be back to normal in the next one. Enjoy!

Chapter 14: The Elephant and the Swan | Summer 2016

The first week serves them pleasantly: Holly gets back into the rhythm of her internship, bringing work home and typing ravenously through the evenings when she's alone in the apartment, and Benedict involves himself in charity work and catches the odd audition or meeting. At night they sleep in the same bedroom, at last, leaving no need for the guest room. Tim and Wendy have returned to their London house for the year, and the four of them meet once or twice at their place, for relaxing, delightful tea and conversation; the older folks endlessly happy to be reunited with their son's sweetheart for the first time since Christmas.

On weekends when neither of them is working, they go out and about exploring the city, keeping to the less populated places, but sometimes swaddling themselves in the protection of crowds, Ben showing her all around the city. She is happy to see all of it, but the older, more historical areas are what truly draw her eye.

In the mornings, when it's still cool, they jog together through the park, using the temperature as an excuse to wear hoods, which aid their anonymity. But they can only keep it up for so long before, in early July, Ben returns at the end of the day and discovers that photographs had been taken earlier that morning, and had been circulating around the internet for hours before anybody who might have stopped them could find out.

He doesn't usually take time to poke and prod around the comments on the internet involving pictures caught of himself—but he makes an exception for these, wanting to be aware of what Holly, herself might read—and also being slightly curious and worried, on his own. In the beginning, he's met mostly with the usual remarks of curiosity, a few haters, but always balanced out by kind—if a bit possessive—defenders. But it's not long before he reaches the real center of the matter, further into the comment threads where the true haters lie, his eyes scanning over the flagrant, scathing remarks, shaking his head and curling his fingers in his hair in distress.

"Christ," he says aloud to himself, after a while, unable to keep silent amidst the online storm.

"What is it?" says Holly, peeking in at the doorway as she sets her bag down on the floor, and he jumps a little bit.

"I didn't hear you come in," he says, trying to play it light. But she knows—she smiles at him, but is still worried by his previous tone, looking for an answer to her query. He sighs, knowing he's not about to trick her, and knowing that he should be the one to see the photographs with her the first time. "People," he says at length, stuttering: "Sorry-some people, some... things. Just..." He motions to the computer screen, and she pads over to him, looking over his shoulder while he looks up at her, gauging her face for any clue of her true emotions. But she only frowns slightly, eyebrows furrowed.

"I'm having a hard time, Holly," he admits at last. "I hate bringing you into this, publicly."

She leans back from the computer screen, crossing her arms over her chest slightly, but not defensively... considering, thinking. After a minute she says, tentatively, and not quite looking at him for fear that he'll disagree with her, "Why don't we just say something, ourselves? Haters will be haters, but, if we at least dispel some of the curiosity, maybe it will die down. If that's what you want."

He sees her point, but shakes his head no, on his first reaction. "Anything we release ourselves, people will only eat up more ferociously. But... that is still a good idea."

For a while they both continue to stare at the computer screen, until Ben declares "enough" and closes out of the tab, closing the laptop and leading her into a different room. But in the end, they do decide to release an official statement, to make it easier on them both: a real commitment, a public decision. Holly knows the danger she's putting herself in through this, knows that this is something permanent, which could change her life forever, change the way people see her... but she knows that Ben has already changed her life—and he is all that any of this will ever be about, as far as she's concerned-not the press, not the gossip, not his celebrity, just... him.

Ben, however, is less convinced. "But, the risks..." he says for the umpteenth time, when it's nearing dusk outside the windows and their second pot of tea is working up to a boil on the stove. "People will only see you through the lens of, well, Benedict Cumberbatch. They won't see, primarily, Holly Whitaker." Though he does have a feeling that people will see her for herself, eventually, it's difficult to bear even the prospect of shrouding her, of making her feel inferior to—or stuck by—him.

Holly's face becomes slightly drawn as she considers what he's said, but both of them know she's already thought about it before. At length, after the kettle has started to whine and Ben has poured two more cups of tea for them, she gathers herself up, situating herself on her chair with her heel on the seat, hugging her knee to her chest. "If that's the way it has to be," she says with a slight shudder, "then so be it. Ben, I'm not in this for them." She motions out towards the window, and, effectively towards the world. He shakes his head slightly, balancing his forehead in his palm, his heart wanting to reach out towards her, but his mind telling him to wait, to give her the chance to leave... though he would hate himself for it afterwards.

Sensing the depth of his distress, she reaches a hand out to him across the table, and when he hesitates in taking it, she stands and goes to him herself, putting her hand on his shoulder gently. "Ben, look at me," she says quietly, and the warmth of her body, and the warmth of her voice, makes him oblige her. "You said they'd always see me through your lens?" she says, "Well... you're a really, really great lens. I love you."

Ben collaborates with his manager, and in the next two days, they do end up releasing a statement, letting the public know that the both of them are, indeed in a relationship, connecting the recent photographs taken in the park to the ones taken outside the Northumberland airport the past winter. No private information about Holly, herself, is disclosed, not even her name, to the outrage of the internet. But both of them let it rest, agreeing not to probe the comments section or the resulting gossip articles. Ben's assistant agrees to let him know, though, if there's anything threatening or worth seeing in the comments, lightening his burden and allowing them both to go free and let it be.

Their bodies become more acquainted in those weeks. At night, they pull their clothes off in stages and study each other tenderly in the darkness, touching carefully, kissing dangerously. He accepts each one of her scars, the surgical scar from the incident on the subway when they'd first met in New York, and the ones from her father, and her bad years on the streets, as well—kissing every one, in awe of her strength. But there's always a place where they stop—a time when their hands become too eager, and they have to separate themselves and try to sleep before they can step over the line which is still in place: Holly's slowly-bending fear.

She feels guilty for her anxiety, and tells him so, sometimes crying in her hatred for that thing in her mind which won't let her escape all those years of her past. But in those times, he catches her up in his arms, and pulls her close against his body, assuring her that it's not her fault, telling her that he will wait as long as she needs. He tells her she has a beautiful soul, tells her she can trust him. This is something many have said to her before. But when he says it, it's the first time she's believed it.

She moves around silently, as gracefully as a swan; he can never hear her going around the apartment, or even if she's there at all, unless she's making noise on her keyboard or has the water on somewhere. It's common for her to come up to him and startle him on accident, telling him abashedly that moving around without making a single sound is something of a habit, and one she can't quite seem to break.

"You make me feel like a lumbering elephant when I walk around," he admits with a chuckle, taking her onto his lap and encircling her waist with his arms.

"Nonsense," she declares, pecking his cheek and then settling in against his side, speaking softly into his ear. "You're as gentle and lovely as a dove," with a slight giggle that makes him pinch her shoulder in jest.

And suddenly he swings her up over his shoulder, holding her there, laughing loudly and protesting without really meaning it, as he stomps about the apartment, declaring, once he's finally set her down again: "No, decidedly a lumbering elephant," and planting one of his chillingly warm kisses on her mouth.

But he's still sure to sneak up behind her later that day, taking great pains in keeping himself silent, and then suddenly straightening up and tapping her on the shoulder, making her jump nearly to the ceiling, with a sharp gasp, holding her hand to her heart. He watches her glare at him and can't help his shoulders' shaking from his laughter as he says, "Taste of your own medicine."

Playfully, she hits him on the arm, but then sinks against him, savoring the warmth of him and humming in happiness as he returns the gesture, wrapping his arms around her little frame. "What if," she says, pondering, "I was the taller one. Then I could be the one to comfort YOU," envying him his size, if only because she never feels quite capable of comforting him, given her small limbs and short stature.

"You're perfectly capable of comforting me, love," he argues gently into her ear, tugging her closer, squeezing her gently, causing her to relax further against his frame. "You're comforting me as we speak. Tell me: is a child not comforted by a stuffed animal less than a quarter of his own size?"

She scoffs lightly against his shirt, going rigid with laughs. "You make a good point, but I don't know whether or not to take offense to that."

He shakes his own head at himself, "I didn't mean it that way," and chuckles, holding her out at arm's length, hands squeezing her shoulders. "You are most certainly a human being of flesh and blood, comparable in no way to a stuffed toy. And..." for the first time that day, he allows himself to take her in with his eyes, and raises an eyebrow mischievously at her. "You look scrumptious."

"Pfft," she says, blushing slightly and twisting away.

But he holds her close, bringing her back into him and lowering his mouth to her ear. "I could just..." he says, his voice deep and dramatically menacing, eyes flashing... "I could just... eat you."

For a second, the sudden change in his mien makes her actually scared, chills and goosebumps springing up all over. "You're going to give me a bad dream with that voice," she says, with a slight squeak, relieved to see the normal Ben return to his eyes, but still slightly intimidated—in a good way.

"Mmm," he says, "by bad, I hope you mean naughty."

She smiles bashfully and a rumble goes through his chest as he bends down to kiss her gently, but with an underlying hunger which makes her legs tremble.

Her mouth opens to his, and her body melts further. She wants him terribly, painfully, but she knows, too, that, were she to try to cross that bridge right now, she would end up afraid. A whimper ripples up through her mouth, both from the thought and the distress her body feels at being thus denied of its burning desires. And, though his own body protests, too, after a beat, Ben steps away—he knows what he does to her, knows to respect her boundaries physically, or she will give into him, knows that he has no choice but to trust and respect her knowledge of herself, however painful the waiting is.

Keeping a safe distance, but not leaving her just yet, he brushes his hand over her cheek, smiling, letting her know that it's okay this time, as it always will be. But, Still, he has to suppress a groan—the thought alone of being inside her sends him reeling, and self-control is a hard-won battle.

As fate would have it, that night, a nightmare does come to Holly... but not at Benedict's hands. It's the sort of nightmare she hasn't had in a long time: full of feelings and images that usually manifest themselves in momentary flashes of memory or horror I the daytime, only to dispel a moment later and leave her in a limbo-state of relief, but still full of worry, expecting trouble—expecting to encounter her father—at every turn.

She wakes from it, not with a start, but with a sinking feeling of being paralyzed, and then having to work herself out of bed piece by piece. She gets up carefully, easing her weight away from Ben, so he won't wake, and then sneaks into the bathroom across the hall, feeling separate from herself, only connected to her completely naked body barely—by a string. She closes the door around, not lucid enough to lock it, or even to turn on the light, before leaning against the counter unsteadily, splashing water in fer face, shivering uncontrollably. She feels like she might be sick, but knows she won't be, and her mind is out of control, her body in pain, remembering. Tears spring out of her eyes, stinging in the darkness, and she's starting to panic, silently, her throat closing up because she's trapped inside of her body and there's no hope of getting out.

Without thinking, letting that misguided sense of being half-dead guide her every movement, she turns on the shower to its coldest setting and gets under it, sitting in a ball on the floor of the tub, letting herself become numb, rocking back and forth for a time and then just becoming totally still, shivering in absolutely freezing water, letting the white noise of the faucet drown out the lingering sounds of her dream, feeling the beads of water trickling down her back, urging on her silent, choking tears.

In the bedroom across the hall Ben's subconscious picks up on the sound of the shower, and he wakes in a snap of consciousness, his body stiffening when he feels the absence of Holly in bed, and pieces together that fact with the sound of the shower across the hall.

At the onset of his lucidity, he considers leaving her be, but then he knows that she never takes showers this late, and a general sense comes into the chambers of his heart, that something is not right. That she needs him.

Trusting the gut feeling, he rises from the mattress, and goes across the hall in the darkness to the bathroom door, pressing his ear against it, hearing nothing telling beneath the sound of the shower. "Holly?" he calls carefully, tapping on the door. He does this twice more, but there is still no response, and a pang of worry takes up sudden residence in his chest, calling him to get through the door.

It's with surprise that he finds the door isn't locked—juxtaposed by his previous sensation of danger and adrenaline—but he is glad of it, and opens the door carefully, entering the bathroom.

His heart rises into his throat when he sees her, curled around herself in the shower, and Holly, herself, can only vaguely sense his presence, but doesn't look up at him, because she is sure her neck is permanently frozen under the water. Ben reaches out to check the temperature and hisses at finding it freezing, reaching down and turning the water off.

She can't move, but she doesn't want to in the first place. She's surprised when, when he reaches out to touch her, his hand seeming hot against her frigid, shivering skin, her body is capable of movement-a flinch, a sudden jump away from the feeling of physical contact. A sob jumps from her throat just afterward, both in a cold-delayed reaction to his hand, and also upon realizing that she'd flinched away from him that way, her instincts suggesting danger in his presence, though her heart still knows he is safe. A terrible guilt takes over her, casting itself over and through her like the coldest ice, and she comes even more still than before, silent tears rolling out of her eyes.

He brings her a blanket and—ever so gently—places it around her shoulders, before sitting down, on the other side of the tub—there for her, but not making her talk until she's ready, not insisting that she accept his efforts of comfort. They stay that way for another minute before she says, in a voice not quite her own, and so quiet that he nearly doesn't hear her: "I was ten years old."

Of course, he can only remain there, not responding—because there is no way to respond. They only remain there in silence, Ben in a motionless, choked support, Holly still trembling, and not quite present, in disbelief of everything: of the world, of herself.

At length, once time has begun to congeal into a sort of gel, she does stand up—wobbling on her unreliable legs—and almost slips, but regains her balance on her own before stepping out of the shower. Without daring to return his gaze, she passes by him and goes like a waif through the bathroom door, and out into the living room, laying down on the couch. He follows her there after a minute and finds her, curled up like a child—surely like the ten year old girl plaguing her mind, her memory—and staring off into space, blackly.

He lingers back in the doorway, afraid to frighten her, knowing there's nothing he can do, but forcing himself to ask , nevertheless: "What do you need me to do?"

For a long time she's silent. But then, as though it's the most difficult thing she's ever done, she accepts breath into her paralyzed, freezing lungs, and manages to say, just above a whisper: "Go to sleep."

He looks at her for a moment longer, before the feeling of horror and piercing sorrow begins to feel akin to a heart attack in his chest. Then he turns at last, knowing that he has no choice, and goes back to their bed. When he wakes in the morning, his pillow is damp with tears, and she's still sound asleep on the couch, the freezing water evaporated from her tight, exhausted body, the blanket draped over her almost like a burial shroud.

In the following days she climbs back into what might be perceived as a normal state of mind, but both of them know that what happened is impossible to forget. Finally, on a very early Saturday morning, out walking cautiously in a nearly empty park, she brooches the subject, knowing that he wouldn't dare to.

"That kind of intensity usually doesn't happen," she starts, diving in headfirst, and looking at him briefly to make sure he's caught up with her before continuing. "It's hard enough for you, I can tell, just seeing this run its course... I want you to know that you're doing everything right. If it doesn't seem like it's helping, then it's coming from my end and I'm-"

He gives her a severe look from under the shield of his sweater's hood, a silent reprimand for her near-apology. She bites her tongue, almost too hard, but not enough to draw blood, and makes an expression of digression, still getting into the practice of not saying she's sorry for the things she's not truly at fault for.

"... I need to know that," she continues at length, "if you need help because of this, you'll seek it out."

Wary of their surroundings, but deeming the coast clear, he steps closer to her, allowing her to follow suit, looking up at him as he nods the affirmative. "I promise," he says, and she knows he means it from his eyes, a world of weight lifted off of her shoulders.

And, indeed, Ben reaches out, days later, to Tom—on one of their usual catching-up calls, he reveals his worries, gently broaching the subject of Holly's trauma. In the end it's Tom who sets his mind at ease officially, sympathizing with the difficult situation, but suggesting—of course—that he only continue to be himself; he knows Ben's gentle, considerate and intuitive nature, and finally convinces him of his lack of reprehensibility.

As the summer draws to a peak and then subsides, closer and closer to the ever-feared end, Holly comes to bury herself in her writing. Often, she'll rise from bed in the middle of the night—full of energy, and humming with life beneath her skin, the life of the words that are on her side—because something will strike her, and she'll have to let it out in a torrent that can sometimes last more than an hour.

"Nearing the end?" Benedict asks one night when he's woken by the light pattering sound of the keyboard from the other room, and goes out to join her, sitting adjacent, and taking care not to unnerve her by watching her words take form across the screen.

"Yes, actually," she says with a light smirk, knowing how tortured he feels by her being bent on not letting him read a sentence of it while it's still in progress. "I might send it to you when it's done. If I'm feeling merciful."

On some nights, he will wake to quiet, finding her warmth still dissipating from her place in the bed, and will venture out into the living space to find that she's become lost down the rabbit hole, probing the underworld of philosophical scholarly essays and Freudian analysis of passages of literature. She'll groan, brought back to herself, and the fact of how easily she can be pulled off track by such things. "I love reading the dense stuff," she'll admit to him, throwing her hands up in the air and sometimes covering her face as he squints at the words on the screen.

"You need to have an in-depth literary discussion with Tom," he'll tell her. "He gets way over my head with this type of thing, but the two of you would be two peas in a pod."

"I'll come back to bed, now," she'll say, explaining how the computer, as a medium for her creativity, can sometimes become a hazardous distraction from her goals. "This is why," she'll say in jest, "writers before the electronic age were so much better— You can't distract yourself working with a typewriter or plain old pencil and paper." And he'll smile to himself secretly as they go back through the apartment to settle back into bed together, making a silent and joyously mischievous mental note to make a typewriter his next extravagant Christmas gift to her.

When the tension dispels at last, they're sitting in bed, Benedict absorbed in A Midsummer Night's Dream for his own entertainment, and Holly making the first round of revisions on a printed manuscript from the publishing house with a blue pen. She rubs some of the stray ink around on her fingertips until it gives off the illusion of being gone, and then yawns quietly, her whole body getting in on the act as her back arches and she places the hefty stack of papers on her bedside table. A gentle, relaxed physicality has fallen around her like a veil, and she leans over casually to kiss Ben on the cheek, as she does most nights.

He'd watched her movements before, the warm curl of her spine (inspiring an almost painful jolt of desire in him), the way her hair shifted of its own volition over her shoulder, the sleepy sound of her yawn. And now, darting out with a gentle persuasion, he turns his face and catches her lips just as she turns away from him—and she murmurs, "Fiend," against his lips with a smile, as she kisses him back.

Quickly, though, something grows between their cautious-moving mouths, and they both feel something new... feel that this may be what they've waiting for. All at once their bodies are attuned to their hearts, and Holly (she realizes, with a feeling of being filled with air, the feeling of floating upward like a balloon), suddenly, is not afraid anymore.

He says: "Do you know what you want?" stroking her bare back, daring to tease her breast with his other hand, making her draw in a slow breath.

"You," she answers, simply.

And that is all: she is handing over her trust to him just like that, and though he feels the true weight of it, it's a good weight, like a blanket. Something binding, and giving him trust in her, in himself, in the two of them as a functioning unit of love. Finally, now, she is relaxed with him; a subtle strength in her body, lending her control, and a long overdue understanding of the power she holds over herself, and of the situation she finds herself in. Simultaneously, though, it is admittedly glorious for Ben to feel the way she submits to his hands, the gentle coos his touches elicit as he opens and closes his mouth gently against hers, probes against her lips with his artistic tongue, a warm, safe steadiness radiating from his strong body.

He kisses her all over, drawing out gentle moans of arousal and redemption as his mouth trails down to each of her fingertips, and then plays its own game of connect-the-dots along the boundary of her ribs. When his tongue traces her hipbone, leaving a circle of dampness to catch the cool air circulating in the room, she cries out and it's the flesh of her thigh that muffles his satisfied laugh. The sound spurs him onward as her back arches instinctively against the blankets, and her hands go up to twist her hair around restlessly, his lips teasing a whimper and a sigh out of her as they grace her center carefully, and then attach themselves with a pressing tenderness to the nub of her pleasure.

She cries out in a subdued, partly muffled way, when his tongue begins to do its work, his hands stroking along the outsides of her legs, his fingertips sending a cool and hot awareness racing all over her body. Beneath the primal feelings he inspires, Holly finds her mind amazed and full of satisfaction: she feels no fear at all, after an initial jolt of concern that comes over her body instinctively at the feeling of his mouth between her legs. But now, she is loose and warm, and she wants to invite him into her—and there's a heightened sense of happiness at the knowledge that that's what he wants, too, and in a way that is the opposite of violent and manipulative.

He continues his gentle efforts, pressing down with his hands on her sides and drumming his fingers slowly, making her catch her lip between her teeth and clamp down on it, just shy of hard enough to draw blood, as her body is pushed through towards that uncertain place full of clashing darkness and light—a dangerous but trustworthy pleasure. He presses his tongue further into her, sharpening it, and after just a few more moments, she finds herself tumbling, black and blue stars swirling in rings around the border of her vision, blistering heavenly just beyond what she can see. Her body convulses of its own will, leaving her mind far behind, drawing it along slowly by a string, leaving her reeling at the sound of Ben just below her, and then the sound of him sitting up and bringing her towards his chest, vibrating with the humming sound of his own pleasure.

He bids her nestle into the crook of his neck and she does, getting her breath back slowly, at first in spastic breaths, and then slowing into hums of gratitude and a lingering, ever-heightening anticipation. He continues to bring her closer and closer, her limp lets draped around his waist, just out of reach of the hardness growing less and less tolerable in his pajama pants.

"Finally," he exhales into her ear after a moment, his hands affirming the grace and ability of her body, warm and steady against her back.

"Say 'at last' Benedict-" she sighs, barely feeling her own mouth move around her light words "-finally implies an ending."

"At last, then," he mutters obligingly, his teeth grazing the arch of her ear, making her hum and melt further into his firm chest. "I love your understanding of words. I love everything about you."

They kiss each other a bit longer, until her leg brushes against his sensitivity and she gaps lightly at the shudder it sends through his body, the gentle stiffness, the understanding that it's time... He puts on protection from his bedside table drawer and she—tentatively, but encouraged by the sharp, grateful groan it brings forth from his throat—helps him on with the lubricant. She blushes at his size and feels that center of herself grow warm with a clenching feeling of mingling excitement and worry, but he swears to her with his eyes that he will be gentle, implores her to tell him if it hurts. They fall back together on the bed, Holly thrilled by the feeling of her comparative smalless as he hovers over her, kissing, touching more, his hand traveling down between her legs, his cool fingers rubbing against her imploringly, making her sigh and nod.

"Do you want a pillow?" he says, slipping a finger into her and making her gasp, the sound echoed by a groan of his own at the sensation of her center gripping his narrow finger with its warmth—a promise of a true, imminent thrill.

"What?" she says, her voice gently high in trepidation.

"Trust me," he says with a smile against her cheek. And she does—he slips a soft pillow just beneath her hips, her back being forced to arch, sending his finger deeper into her, causing her to whimper and clutch herself against him, arms bending and pulling warmly.

The beginning of it comes slowly, softly, in a few subtle movements—her knees tugging themselves softly up to his sides, his length probing her entrance as their tongues mingle, both their bodies teetering on the edge of control. And then, encouraged by her gentle, fleeting fingertips against his cheekbone, pulling the curls of his hair around his ear ever so tenderly, he presses forward, helping to steer her with one hand around her back... At first, her body has a hard time accepting him, and a vague series of groans and hisses wrack her throat like a new song, as he slowly, slowly buries herself into the warm depths of her body—and, simultaneously, of her very soul.

And then, all at once, he stills, still and warm and filled with coursing power and elation on top of her, his body pressed to the greatest possible depth, so near to pain—but everything inside of her is relaxing, a tight warmth and comfort, a vague stretching that feels so, so sweet—and no fear. A tear slips out the corner of her eye, and he notices, their cheeks brushing past each other when he draws his face backwards to look into her eyes.

"Am I hurting you?" he whispers at the tear, kissing it away with trembling lips.

"The opposite," she sighs, her words slow and speaking gently of the depth and firmness of their connection.

Together, they move, tentatively at first, and then gaining force together, spinning off into a new world of sensation and intention, bodies obeying a higher order, each responding to the other's ever shift and exhale. They complete almost together, each tumbling in stages after the other, their bodies clenching in and out as one, her limbs ensnaring him, forcing him to remain atop her, even when he starts to move away, for fear of crushing her, his weight grounding her as she rides out the remnants of her body's pleasure. Everything is just right, there, between the two of them, a thrilling rightness. And nothing of the past infringes upon that pleasure and safety.

All either of them knows is that they want this to last forever. And in that exhausted quiet in the aftermath, between their shared gasps and overwhelmed, relieved chuckles and open, weak-mouthed kisses, they swear that they will make it so.

Author's Note:

Ahh. I'm so happy for them. Some of that was really sad (that part was super hard to write, I'm really sorry), but in the end, things started working out okay, and will CONTINUE to do so (as far as I know right now—there just MIGHT be some more drama coming up ahead).

I don't usually consider love scenes one of my strong suits, and I hope this one floated your boat. I wanted to keep it pretty simple, so as not to overcomplicate the basic emotional aspects with too much detailed physical description... let me know what you thought, and how you felt about that method, so that I can keep doing what I'm doing, or shift things around to improve. There will definitely be more physicality in upcoming chapters, so things will change and perhaps get a bit more detailed as time goes on. Seriously, writing these things gives me such anxiety... I just never know if what I'm trying to convey is coming across. Feedback on this would be very, VERY appreciated.

Around the middle of the chapter after Holly's traumatic episode when she and Ben discuss how Ben should seek support, as well—that's legitimate, you guys. If you have a partner or good friend who is going through some tough stuff, it is always a good idea to seek out some support for yourself, as an individual. Helping someone recover from this sort of thing is a really big task, and you will only be able to do that better with some people backing you, at the same time. Never be afraid to reach out—even if it isn't to someone who is a professional psychologist. There is strength in numbers (when your teammates are chosen wisely).

Sorry again for the delay—I'm working my hardest to give you guys frequent updates. Please keep treating me to your wonderful feedback! I never get tired of it!

Une-papillon-de-nuit

8 August, 2020