[ It slows. It steadies, moment by moment, and Carver gets his breath back. He rests his head against her shoulder just to steady himself, running his fingers along her back. Finding and tracing tattoos in an absent sort of way, wondering vaguely whether they mean anything or if she just liked the shape of them. Wondering how she earned her scars. Some of them echo his own, a familiar toll of violence, and he wonders about that too. Her life and the shape it took before she ended up here, all the things he hasn't had a chance to ask or even wonder at.
She's strange. An enigma, in many ways. But she feels good right now and he likes how she feels on top of him, how she traces out the shape of a scar on his chest.
These things happen.
He squeezes her hip briefly, a fond gesture he wouldn't have made except for the endorphins, and lifts his head to watch her. She's relaxed now. They both are. And he feels settled in a way he very rarely does these days. ]
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She's strange. An enigma, in many ways. But she feels good right now and he likes how she feels on top of him, how she traces out the shape of a scar on his chest.
These things happen.
He squeezes her hip briefly, a fond gesture he wouldn't have made except for the endorphins, and lifts his head to watch her. She's relaxed now. They both are. And he feels settled in a way he very rarely does these days. ]