The hesitant touch of Fenrir’s hands was almost like pain. She didn’t try to deepen the kiss, or push it any farther, or anything at all. Summer drew back enough to look at those dark eyes, letting her breath out slowly. Her free hand covered his.
She’d shut up the fears and dared herself to touch him, and he’d allowed it. He seemed to be welcoming it, but it was right here, in this kind of situation, that she always began to doubt herself. Everything about herself. She didn’t dare rely on her empathy, didn’t dare let that guide her for fear she’d trick herself, push too hard.
“Fenrir?” Summer asked, low.
His brows came down over his eyes just slightly as his eyes searched her, almost as if he were looking for answers. As if he were trying to look into her thoughts; somehow develop a similar power as her own. Be able to know what was going through her mind. Why she suddenly seemed so withdrawn. So shy and hesitant. He wished to know. He longed to just understand.
“Yes Summer?” He echoed in a tone matching hers, thumb idly brushing over the smooth skin of her cheek—gently, almost as un-touching as an idle breeze. The ghost of an action. “What is it?” He urged, wishing in that moment above all else that she would simply know that she was safe here. All of her was. Her words, her actions, her thoughts, all of it.
The whirling in her brain wouldn’t settle down to a single thought. So Summer went with instinct. This time, she kissed Fenrir with intent, fitting her mouth to his precisely and letting the kiss and her projection tell him what she couldn’t find the right words to say.
Taking chances was terrifying.