[ She loves that — the roughness of his hands. A soldier's hands. Hands that have pulled her from the line of fire more than once — and hauled her to her feet, when her ears were ringing and her own blood blurred her vision. The same hands that have bandaged her wounds and stitched her up. Washed her hair when she was too tired to do anything but stand under the spray of the fresher. They feel right, fitted over the curve of her ribs, close enough to feel the edge of her heartbeat where it races for him just below her breast.
She doesn't keep undressing, her fingers just loosely curled in the fabric of her shirt as she sits there, half-stalled in the moment. It's not the same impulsive, messy, eager affair that was her first time with Poe — back in that alley behind the cantina, without even knowing his name or intending to ever give him hers. This is different. The love she feels makes her a little soft and a little hesitant at once. It makes her a little quiet when she answers him, her voice low and private: ]
Is that what you'd rather? [ The corner of her mouth turns upward faintly, wry and self-deprecating. ] You worried I might run away again?
no subject
She doesn't keep undressing, her fingers just loosely curled in the fabric of her shirt as she sits there, half-stalled in the moment. It's not the same impulsive, messy, eager affair that was her first time with Poe — back in that alley behind the cantina, without even knowing his name or intending to ever give him hers. This is different. The love she feels makes her a little soft and a little hesitant at once. It makes her a little quiet when she answers him, her voice low and private: ]
Is that what you'd rather? [ The corner of her mouth turns upward faintly, wry and self-deprecating. ] You worried I might run away again?