He’d tried everything, and it wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate it— he knew you did— there just wasn’t anything he could do to make it better. He couldn’t change the situation, couldn’t reverse time, couldn’t love your troubles away. So instead, he propped himself up behind you and stroked your arm and told you stories from the tour and funny things that had happened at the photoshoot yesterday and rambled his thoughts about the new album, just trying to get your mind off of it all. And, as usual, without meaning to, his soft babbles turned into fragmented hums and phrases of new songs, old songs, songs he’d heard on the radio that day. And it wasn’t until then that your shoulders finally relaxed and you let out a shaky sigh. Noticing, he gave a small smile, and continued quietly singing— even laughing a little bit into the notes, and kissed your temple. You eased back into him and he smiled again, kissing your nose and making you laugh as he broke out into a low croon, Sinatra all the way. Soon your puffy eyes started to get heavy, his singing quieter, and your breathing slower. And he smiled to himself because he’d finally accomplished his mission, if only for a moment. You were happy again, relaxed, at ease in his arms and able to drift off to a place where angry coworkers and late homework and inconsiderate fans couldn’t touch you.
