She fingers the metal just as he twines his hand in her hair. It’s soft and curls around his fingers like cashmere, and she smiles at him. “John…” It’s hard for him to own up to his history, to face the past. She curls around him, so that his neck buries into the crook of her shoulder, and he smells her perfume and shampoo, feels her warmth. She kisses the top of his head, and he reaches for her hand. He’s splintered, compartmentalized, fragmented. “John…” The tears fall hot and heavy against her. She is his fallout and his shelter.