[ tears hang in his eyes, full and heavy and unshed. they blur his vision. they blur the image of her before him, speaking words that make him shake and feel and hang on with every hope and wish and solace inside of him. she sees him. she sees him, and it devastates and strengthens him all at one. it shakes him, just as dearly as it soothes: the brush of her touch, the kindness and anchor of her hands holding him.
perhaps she is right. he knows that she is. he wants her to be, his hands clinging to her, his grasp finding her shoulder. his voice is hoarse, low, thick and fierce with all he needs to say, all he must get out. ] There are things I have done. To you. There are things I would still do. [ he might not be that fabled monster, the horror in scary stories told to children, but he would still be monstrous. she must know that. ]
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perhaps she is right. he knows that she is. he wants her to be, his hands clinging to her, his grasp finding her shoulder. his voice is hoarse, low, thick and fierce with all he needs to say, all he must get out. ] There are things I have done. To you. There are things I would still do. [ he might not be that fabled monster, the horror in scary stories told to children, but he would still be monstrous. she must know that. ]