[Paul thinks of the woman he met who shoved bread into her mouth as an act of defiance, her eyes blazing dark and fierce and hungry above it. That was a woman who wouldn't part with anything of hers, however she came to claim it, a woman like a sharp, bloody-knuckled fist.
He reaches out and curls his hands around the crooks of her elbows, clasps them together forearm to forearm, and smiles at her with open, soft affection.]
I'm good at giving people fits.
[Then, as if in reminder, he brings his head forward to briefly touch their foreheads together, in the place where she once rightly drew his blood.]
So are you, but you know that. [And quietly, between only them:] Thank you for everything else, too.
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He reaches out and curls his hands around the crooks of her elbows, clasps them together forearm to forearm, and smiles at her with open, soft affection.]
I'm good at giving people fits.
[Then, as if in reminder, he brings his head forward to briefly touch their foreheads together, in the place where she once rightly drew his blood.]
So are you, but you know that. [And quietly, between only them:] Thank you for everything else, too.