Storm-Worn Hearts
And somewhere in the quiet, his hand found my waist again, slow and unconscious, fingers resting there like a claim he didn’t know he was making.
I didn’t move away.
I closed my eyes and let myself feel it, the warmth, the weight, the fragile miracle of Dawson Lane sleeping through the night.
In the other room, Liberty’s laughter had finally faded into silence.
Outside, the world stayed dark and uncertain.
But in this bed, for a few precious hours, the storm inside him quieted.
My heart, stupid, faithful, terrified, beat like it had finally been allowed to speak.
Bab Populer