She never quite felt safe. No, that wasn’t the word for it. She just always felt on. She was always analyzing the situations even as she was in the middle of them. Being around people, no matter how fun or gratifying, was always a drain on her. Like a true introvert, she needed time alone to recharge. It was during that charge that she could finally relax, let her hair down. She didn’t care how she looked after a long day or how ungraceful her movements were as she danced alone in her home.
But eventually she’d return to the world. She couldn’t be alone forever (she didn’t want to be alone, either). She’d return to the people that she called friends, to her family, to the people that she loved and who loved her, and they’d slowly drain her away. No, it was never quite safe in the real world.
It felt safe with him, though. It felt safe in his arms. She had no doubt that he accepted her unconditionally, that no matter how worn her makeup, how tired her voice or how messy her hair, that would be okay by him. It would be better than okay, she was sure. And she needed that.
She needed that in ways she hadn’t understood for years. She hadn’t felt that way with her previous partners, not even the one to whom she sworn to love until the day she died. She hadn’t felt so wholly comfortable, so utterly free. She had never quite felt so complete as when she was in his arms. The realization that the person who had been there all along was the key to a locked door she hadn’t even seen while she passed it a hundred, thousand, million times before.
And she didn’t think that he had any idea that he was the only key that fit, that he opened a door to freedom. He had no idea that that by holding her tight he was releasing her of all her worries and fears. He was clueless, perhaps, like all men are. Maybe that’s what made it all work in the end. She wasn’t quite sure.
All she knew is that she felt safe with him.