She rests her head by the curve of his shoulder, nestling into it.

The room is dimmed so that only two figures clutching to each other remain aware of the other’s proximity and warmth, in a stretch of darkness.

Softly, mutedly, she feels him tracing the outline of her spine, his long fingers fluttering in the void. She presses her lips to his skin, thanking him silently for the past few days. Crickets hum on in the distance, then quieting in the breeze.

The next day in class, her mind is fixated on him. As her pen scratches her notepad, she remembers running her fingers through his hair, tugging at it with a silent demand. 

The wind scatters her place in the book and as her fingers press against the paper, the dry surface rubbing against her fingertips, she wants to reach out and feel his skin against hers, forceful and consummated. The teacher makes eye contact with her briefly as he lectures about Venus and the ideals of beauty and lust. For a moment, she shivers, his words echoing her thoughts too closely.

“…sometimes you have to make yourself vulnerable to a person and trust in the commonality that you share. That you are all so vividly human, so brokenly so, which makes you love life and love each other and so that makes it worthwhile.”

The professor is outright rambling and yet, she thinks she has not heard truer words in a long time. Again, she remembers his warm embrace and falling asleep more contentedly than a babe in his arms.


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