the room was quiet, relaxed, dim, comfortable.

they lay on the bed, silent,

his arm resting on her.

she held it,

stroking his scars softly.

they don't speak much,

but occasionally she says something,

and he will respond, and

his face is carefully blank,

his emotions kept inside,

where they can fester, grow, change, wait.

wait for when he is ready to feel them.

ready to feel his love for her,

his comfort around her,

this delicious new sensation

of *him*, once the *lies* are all gone away.

he relaxes, realising that this,

right here,

is all he has ever wanted.

then, he makes some stupid joke,

pulls away, withdrawing once again

into himself.

he doesn't trust himself, in that state.

doesn't trust that he won't say something,

and fuck it up.

even though he knows

that she wil never judge him.