☳𝐏𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐀𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬

Paul mutters in his sleep, a trickle of sweat running down his temple. You're awake, pulling your hair into an intricate braid.

"Noah..." he murmurs, sitting up suddenly. You can see the fear in his eyes as he looks in your direction.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, moving to your knees beside him and cradling his head under your chin. You repeat the mantra several times until his breathing returns to normal. He places a hand on your forearm as you lean back against the walls of your tent.

“Thank you,” he says, resting his head on your chest as he rubs his thumb over your stylist suit. Your hand finds its way into his soft hair, a habit you’ve picked up with him. He hums, the sound rumbling in his chest, as he holds you close. His fingers find the hem of your shirt and he rubs circles on the bare skin of your lower back. Paul tilts his head to look at you. "You're wearing my shirt," mumbles