Nodding, I sluggishly pull him back to the center of the cell and slide to the ground. “And then we’ll get out of here.” “And then we’ll get out of here,” he repeats softly. My head finds the back of his shoulder, slumping against him despite my best efforts. My body aches, every inch of my betraying being begging to curl up against him, to be held by him. At my weakest, I wish for him. And at my strongest, I wish I could say it wasn’t the same. He rests his head on mine, gentle and grounding. I hate that he feels like that. Feels like comfort incarnate.
