otp: you were my picket fence

— you were my picket fence

   She’s confused. Confused and tired and hardly able to walk on her own two feet.

   But he’s there, beside her, like he always his. The familiar weight of his hand around hers keeps her from nodding off, forces her to match his footsteps—which, she notices, are shorter than they usually are. For her, maybe? He’s much taller and he walks much faster, but he’s keeping pace with her slow, dragging feet.