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"Ours is not a caravan of despair."
Her hand was warm on his when she found it underneath the blankets.

The light crept in through cracks of the hotel room in the worst end of the city, where she put cash on the table and no one asked questions. It wasn't much of a night away. But it was something, between all the blood, the fighting, the misery. It was something to have and to look at nothing else, and for a heart, as old as hers, stuck in her chest despite sure it should have left years ago - it was a balm to ribs aching with the effort of holding it in.

Anchorage was not always a weight in the depths. It was how even in their sleep-fogged state, his fingers weaved between hers. It was how he could coax that ugly bit out of her mouth when she was sure her teeth had become as sharp as a lycans. That as she looked, vision soft with early morning light, eyes have open, her bare chest against his - that she found the map of a land long forgotten. If peace were to be a place, it would be here - when her head tilted down to kiss his heart beat.

Awake but only barely, enough to forgive herself these things where when daylight had a poor habit of searing and darkness the addiction of drowning. This half state, a boat with no shore, could not be beholden to either's laws and misgivings. Draping their knitted together hands to push them up and back as she pulls herself up his chest. Humming softly as she presses his hand back into the bed, settling her face into the crook of his neck, her body pressing tightly into his side, legs tangled together. Their connection hands to the angle means her arm stays draped over his chest.

"You should tell me what works you have been reading." Then laughs for the impractical silliness of it all. She never bothers, in herself, she cannot abide that sort of sentimentally, but in him, she adores such the same thing.