"It makes me so angry," she murmured. She closed her eyes as she felt his fingers barely touching her hair. Delicate areas below the ear, wisps curling through a mop that hadn't been washed in three days. He didn't seem to mind.

"I can't understand what I'm supposed to say," he replied thoughtfully, crossing his legs at the ankle. She curled up closer, her head resting on his thigh. And she didn't see the small, warm smile that came before he smoothed her hair back. But she felt it.

"I just want to go somewhere," she said, eyelids caked with smudged mascara. In the back of her mind, she wasn't sure if she cared enough to wash it off. And so she continued: "Somewhere cinematic and sunny. I would wear flowery dresses and be ideal."

"I like the word ideal," he responded without commitment, "It sounds so ideal."

"I love you because you accept me."

"I love you back," he said. He leaned down and murmured the words a second time against her hair.

"Bird is calling," she murmured, voice empty, "She wants me back."

"Then go back."

"I don't want to. She's locked."

"She won't always be," he insisted, sliding a hand down her spine. His fingers pressed against the sore spots, kneading gently. She closed her eyes, the rims filling with tears.

"I'm cold."

"I know," he said.

"I'm lost."

"You're with me."

"I won't always be," she accused, voice low.

"Yes you will," he assured her; he followed the curve of her back to her hip with a fingertip, and back again.

"Okay," she said softly, eyelids heavy.

"Attagirl," he whispered.