2/2 (definitely didn't make this icon just for this, no way.)
But she's not going.
She reaches down and pulls on the laces of her boots. He can't look away, stupefied by the sight of her taking off her shoes like she's going to stay. He stares at her with the cautiously hopeful look of a dog begging by the table, just praying for a scrap. He wants so much more than this but if she'll stay it's more than he deserves. Still, he can hardly believe she really will-- even as that shirt comes off after her shoes. (And what a sight she makes. His racing mind goes blank for a brief and serene moment, struck dumb by those curves.) She pushes him against the bed, and when she doesn't crawl right in with him he wonders again if this will be the point where she walks away, but even he knows that's absurd. Shoeless and down a shirt seems like an unlikely way to make an exit. So he hopes, and feels a little more sure than he did at any point before that she's really, really going to stay with him.
Maybe he doesn't believe it fully until she crawls in on the other side of the bed. He's not sure what to do, what is acceptable, whether he's even allowed to touch her at all, so he lies still and lets her settle where she will. He's surprised when it's right beside him, surprised she doesn't keep some distance between them. She tucks herself in behind him and wraps her arm around him and it overwhelms him, leaves him completely overcome. He's never been held this way, not by anyone. Any time he's had someone snuggled up by him, it's always been safe to say that he's always been the one doing the holding. His mama never even really held him much, and certainly never like this. There's something protective and fortifying about that arm crossed over and around him. He draws it just a little tighter by the grip he has on their locked hands, turning his cheek into the pillow and holding her hand against his heart. It's beating hard, charged as he is by the thrill of her closeness, of this sweet and comforting embrace. If he wasn't already a complete sucker, if he wasn't already entirely gone, in this moment he knows he's fallen so far over the edge for her that there's no hope, no chance of ever going back for him. He wants this. He wants her to be his, wants to always know it ain't the last look, last touch, last embrace he'll ever have from her. He wants her to know him, know all of him, and he wants to know all of her in turn. He wants to know her past and be irrevocably tied to her future. He feels her push her feet between his, feels her breath against the back of his neck, and he draws her hand up slightly to tuck his face in and press his lips to their entwined fingers.
"This is enough," he murmurs in answer, his voice rough and not entirely steady. "More than enough." He draws in a deep breath, thumb brushing across the back of Lita's hand. "Thank you." Those two words are lame and inadequate, not possibly able to convey the way she's really made him feel. But it's the best he can do, and with her close and comforting presence he feels himself succumbing fast to the exhaustion weighing him down. He feels his stiff muscles all relaxing, feels himself coming to a flatline rest. But as he's sinking down, he knows that no matter what happens, no matter what, he'll do anything, anything, everything it takes until she's his again. Until he can ask her to be his woman and she'll say yes with the same glad decisiveness as she did in that gym, before she knew the truth. He'll spend the rest of his days proving himself if he has to. He knows she asked for space, knows she probably meant for him to leave her be, but he knows beyond a doubt that he can't do that. That he can't deny or suppress the size and scope of these feelings. He's always been relentless in the pursuit of what he wants, and the fight to win back her heart and trust won't be any exception. Even if she denies him 'till his dyin' day, he'll never stop trying.