Work Text:
He hasn't touched her in weeks, not just intimately - at all. When they pass in the hallway, he moves as far from her as he can. When they sit at the table for dinner, he keeps his feet on his side of the table. He doesn't let even their shoes brush against one another.
When they sit on the couch, he sits far to one corner, that is, when he gives her any room to sit at all. Lately, she's been sitting in the nearby chair. The chair may be right next to the couch, but she feels like he's miles away.
She's tried. Tried to touch him in little ways, brushing her fingers along his shoulders when he's sitting on the couch; rolling over to drape her arm across his chest when they're asleep, but he always shrinks away.
It's lonelier in the apartment when they're both home than it is when she's there by herself. Desperately, she wishes that wasn't the case. She needs the physicality of his touch. She needs to feel his hands on her skin, his mouth on hers, his body pressed against her when they sleep. She needs him to make her feel sexy and loved and wanted. She wants to make him feel the same, but he won't let her. And to her that is the worst kind of torture.
One more week, then she may have to find a way out before she forgets what it's like to be touched.