Couch Cuddles
She shouldn't be here. She knows she shouldn't and yet here she is just the same, knocking on his door in the middle of the night, with her heart thudding loudly in her chest, and the cold still lacing her blood, clinging to every one of her pores like a layer of ice coated to her skin.
The door swings open; no hesitation, as if he knew it was her, or was hoping it would be. Either thought is a dangerous path down a road they can't take, even though in moments like these she forgets why they can't. She shakes it off, not even capable of analyzing or questioning, not after the day they'd had. She just wants... She can't not be here; aches to see how the color has rushed back into his skin instead of the frosted pallor; see him move and speak and breathe.
His hair is adorably mussed, strands sticking up in every direction, his eyelids drooped as he takes her in, simply watches her framed in the doorway of his home and her insides drop at the sharp yearning in his eyes, all pretenses gone.
She should not be here but he's opening his door wider for her- and she steps inside.
The heat in the room roars at her, the vents pushing out warm air at full blast but it only makes her shiver more. He waits for her, silently stands guard while she toes off her boots, carelessly drops her wool coat to the floor, and then she follows him as he shuffles toward the couch, hunched beneath a blanket.
The TV is on, casting a bluish tint to the room that eerily reminds her of why she's come here, and goosebumps crawl up and down her arms. The sound is turned low though, leaving her hyper-aware of every breath he takes, every rustle and brush of fabrics as he drops onto the couch, lifting the piled up blankets next to him. She lets herself sink down into the welcoming cushions, drawing her knees up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them protectively, sitting next to him at a respectable distance while he arranges the blankets over her.
They sit silently, mindlessly watching some home redecorating show but it's like an unstoppable force, the way the warmth crawls beneath her clothes, making her feel hazy with fatigue, her eyes barely staying open. The way she sinks toward him, inexorably drawn to him; her legs unspooling as he opens his arms to her, drawing her over his chest with a sigh that sounds so much like relief. The way he folds her into his embrace as if they always do this, as if it's the most natural thing in the world, and maybe it is, maybe it should be.
She settles against him, her legs tangled between his as she curves a palm to his ribcage where she can feel the melody of his breathing, calm and regular and strong. He holds her tightly, his arms banded around her back but she doesn't care, savors the strength and unabashed need in his touch. His heart pumps beneath her ear, a stark rhythm that seems to sync with the pounding of her blood, her throat clogged with yearning that usually remains unacknowledged, well hidden beneath layers of teasing and work and careful lines they don't cross but it's there, stark and undeniable.
She breathes him in, her limbs tightening around him, her eyes closing as she swallows away the tears. He's here, breathing in her arms - broad and strong and warm and alive, still alive.
He's alive, he made it. They made it. They made it and she'll take this night, treasure every second she gets to be curled in his arms, savor the tangible knowledge that he's still here.
Tonight, this is where she needs to be.