he who hesitates is toast

She makes a soft sound and keeps slowly drawing her fingers through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead, watching as tension drains out of him, as he lets himself grow heavy and loose. Her hand on his chest rises and falls more slowly as his breathing deepens.

You're every beat of my heart, he'd said, and she feels it now, this feeling pulsing through her. Wildfire, he'd called them, and there's no doubt that's true, but it's banked and content for now, more like the comfortable warmth of a hearth at home, or the steady burn of a candle.

But there. Always there. In every heartbeat, in every breath. "My sweetheart," she murmurs, and runs her thumb gently over his temple. "Sleep."