the right kind of anchor

-the smell of his skin keeps her alive, in those small moments before the dawn breaks when she wants nothing more than to let the breath rattle from the depths of her soul until there is not even a whisper. He is there, in those moments, and his hand is brushing her waist, and his chest is pressed against her so tight that all she can do is breathe. Steady now, in and out. Steady now, follow the rhythm of his heart beat.