Toby sat quietly on the edge of the bed, the dim light casting long shadows across the room. You were curled up on his lap, drunk and fragile, clinging to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to the world. His gloved hands rested gently on your hips, unsure, hesitant, like he was afraid he might break you if he held on too tight.

Your hands were warm against his face not that he could tell anyways, palms soft as you cupped his scarred skin, pressing slow, tender kisses to his cheeks, his jaw, the corner of the non-scarred side of his mouth. Lipstick stains bloomed over his face like bruises made of love. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t meet your eyes either.

His cheeks flushed a deep red, his breath shaky, and he muttered something low under his breath that you couldn’t quite catch. Maybe it was your name. Maybe it was an apology. Maybe it was just the sound of someone wishing they could stay in this moment forever, knowing it was already slipping away.

And all he could think about was how badly he wanted to see you once more, just once more, without the weight of the world between you. Just you, sober and steady, looking at him like you meant it.