The words fall apart first, letters dropping everywhere, some haphazardly listing against each other, some teetering on the brink of obsolescence and finally he presses his forehead against mine in silence. He didn't believe me when I told him I was unhurt, choosing instead to rip everything off me, lifting up my arms, turning me this way and that, sharing in my expression of hot angry tears because he doesn't understand this and he never ever will.
His relief though. I feel it washing over me, forcing the evil away. I watch it run in gritty grey rivulets across my skin, soaking into the ground. He conjures flames to burn the rest away, his heat autoclaving my soul, or the reasonable facsimile I still carry, fusing the pieces of my heart together just a little more securely.
I'm sorry, I venture when the last of the fire smothers itself, having nothing left to burn.
And he laughs. No, you're not. That's the hardest part. He pulls me in against his heart and my heart speeds up to match.
