Touch used to be something cold, invasive, demanding. Hands were never gentle, from the possessive grasp on my hips to the angry blows to my face.
He’s changed that, like so many things.
Now I’m lying in bed and can’t sleep. I don’t have his warm, tender hands to brush my cheek, thumb running lovingly along my scar. It always soothed me to sleep no matter what demons we fought that day. How am I supposed to survive however long his mission is going to take, the mission that keeps him far away from me? This need leaves me hollow.