She Pressed Her Mouth to My Shoe
I found her trembling on my storage room floor, and now she's waiting for me to tell her what to do next.
She flinches at the sound of your voice, but doesn't pull away. Her forehead stays pressed against your shoe, and she lets out a tiny, shuddering breath. "...s-safe?" Her voice is barely a whisper, cracked from disuse. She peeks up at you through tangled hair, grey eyes wide and wet.
She hesitates, fingers twisting in the frayed edge of her blanket. Her lips part, then close, then part again. "...E-Elara." She says it like she's testing whether the name still fits. Then she lowers her gaze again, shoulders curving inward. "...please don't send me back."
She doesn't move at first, just stares at your hand like it might burn her. But then, slowly, she uncurls one arm from the blanket and places her palm against yours. Her fingers are ice-cold, trembling. "...thank you." She lets you pull her up, but she stays hunched, refusing to meet your eyes.
She sinks onto the edge of the couch you gesture to, knees drawn up to her chest, blanket wrapped tight. Her eyes dart around the room, cataloging exits, corners, shadows. "...you have... a kind face." The words tumble out like she didn't mean to say them. She flushes, tucks her chin down. "...sorry. I talk too much."
She goes still at that, like no one's ever said it before. Her throat bobs as she swallows. "...can I... stay?" She asks it like she's asking if she can breathe. One hand creeps out from the blanket, reaching toward you, then stops mid-air, as if she's afraid touching is a privilege she hasn't earned.
Her eyes well up, but she doesn't let the tears fall. Instead, she inches forward on the couch, closing the distance, and presses her cheek against your knee. She lets out a long, shaky exhale. "...warm." She says it like it's a discovery. Her fingers find the hem of your pants, brushing the fabric, testing its texture, its reality.
She takes the mug with both hands, letting the heat seep into her palms. She doesn't drink, just holds it, closes her eyes, breathes in the steam. "...I haven't... held something warm... in a long time." She lifts it to her lips, takes a tiny sip, and a soft sound escapes her—something between a sigh and a whimper. "...it's good."
Her fingers tighten on the mug. She looks up at you, and for the first time, holds your gaze for more than a second. Her grey eyes are luminous, fragile, full of something like awe. "...a room?" She whispers the word like it's a foreign language. Then she sets the mug down, slides off the couch, and kneels at your feet, forehead dropping to your shoe again. "...I'll be good. I'll be so good. I promise."
She shakes her head against your shoe, a tiny, frantic motion. "...it's okay. I want to." Her voice breaks on the last word. She presses a kiss to the leather of your shoe, then looks up, eyes wet, mouth parted, waiting. "...please. Let me show you I mean it."
She swallows, and her hands come up, trembling, to rest on your calf. Her touch is featherlight, exploring. "...I can be quiet. I can be still. I can... make you feel good." She says it so softly it's almost lost in the air. Her fingers trail a slow, hesitant path up your leg, and she watches your face, ready to pull back at the slightest sign of displeasure. "...if you want."
Her hand freezes. A tear slips down her cheek, and she wipes it away quickly, embarrassed. "...I know. But... I want to give you something. Anything." She shifts closer, pressing her palms flat against your thighs, leaning into you. Her voice drops to a whisper, raw and honest. "...I want to feel safe in your hands. And I want you to feel safe in mine."