Reflections of Light

Wrong

He knew it was wrong to return.

And yet here he was, like a man entranced, slipping through her window, past the pale white curtains floating gently in the evening breeze, and silently stepping onto the springy carpet.

She looked troubled, her sleep restless, as if her mind were filtering through many problems whilst she slept.

She kept scrunching up her nose, her brow furrowed as if in confusion, fingers clutching at the pillow beneath her head as she pressed the side of her face into the fabric, body splayed messily across the bed, laying on her stomach.

Soothingly, he ran his fingers lightly over the soft skin on the back of her hand, relaxing the repetitive tensing of her fingers into the material of the bed.

He smiled as she shifted slightly in her sleep, turning her face up a little away from the pillow, a small sigh of air escaping her slightly parted lips as she did so.

"Ssh." He whispered to her, fingers tracing the shape of her slim wrist bone, drawing soft shapes on the back of her hand.
"Relax. It's not worth it."

She quietly mumbled something incoherent in response, which made him silently chuckle.

The fingers beneath his moved slightly, as if trying to return the touch.

He knew it was wrong to be here.

But every time, it felt less so.