[ She doesn't expect it when he grips back, she doesn't comfort herself? Why would anyone else? Blinks, taking a shallow breath as if he'd struck her because he could, he could a thousand times, and it would be nothing - nothing to undo her like that. To being held onto. The compression of ribs, the tight feeling in her chest that she doesn't have to pretend, it's the hold he has on her. Stays stock stiff, taking a little hitched inhale because eventually, she must breathe, eventually, she must move, eventually, she will have to unwrap her limbs from his, her heart, from where it thuds hard in her chest like it might crawl out of herself and into him.
Then she latches back, her fingers slip up against his back, fingertips pressing in, her head tilting down to press her face into his hair. ]
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Then she latches back, her fingers slip up against his back, fingertips pressing in, her head tilting down to press her face into his hair. ]
It is good to have a name for it. Simargl.