Sometimes he held her hand, and sometimes she held his. Sometimes she grabbed a big old handfu
Sometimes he held her hand, and sometimes she held his. Sometimes she grabbed a big old handful of the sheets and squeezed it as tight as she could, knuckles scared white, jaw clenched shut. Sometimes he took a grip on her hair, those strong fingers closing shut around it like a lock, and the movement was just as final as hearing that latch click shut. Sometimes she would slide her hands through the short hairs on his face, trying to get some purchase, but always having it slide through. The way he looked at her when she did it, she reckoned he enjoyed those dozens of little sharp tugs. Sometimes his fingers would find the straps of her clothes, and they’d pull, and pull, and pull, until they weren’t her clothes any more. Until they were just piles of material on the floor. Sometimes he’d hold her hand, and sometimes she’d hold his. -- source link
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