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It’s warm, she thinks.
Usually the sofa is cold and Lisa has to swallow her mild discomfort, the thin blankets never quite cover her legs. But right now it’s warmth that’s enveloping her in an embrace.
Feels nice.
Lisa starts suddenly, eyes fluttering open.
And then she’s awake and feels Twelve’s steady breath on her neck, his face burrowed in its crook and left arm loosely circled around her waist, right leg slung across her hips.
The early morning sun is peeking through the curtains and it takes a few moments for Lisa to adjust her eyesight.
Twelve is heavier than he looks; he feels like an anchor tying her to the world, like she’s real and alive and not just a ghost slipping through the world unnoticed. As if she isn't really plain, boring, and lonely Lisa Mishima.
She gingerly turns her face toward him, watches him sleeping calmly, his light brown hair mussed from sleep and messier than usual. He looks serene and she wonders how Nine has the heart to wake him up in the mornings. The soft cotton of his t shirt feels nice, and without thinking she reaches out to clasp the fabric between her fingertips.
She leans into Twelve’s warmth, savoring it. He lets out a long contented sigh, and his arm tightens around her waist. This sensation is new to her, and she feels goose bumps rising on her arms.
“Hey,” Twelve’s voice, still heavy with sleep, startles her, but before she can bolt upright she feels his arms—arms like anchors—gently pushing her back down. Her breath hitches and her heartbeat feels louder.
He looks at her sleepily and lightly caresses her side, as if it’s so casual, as if Lisa’s quickening heartbeat isn’t thrumming in her ears.
Touch, more touch, and she can feel the blood rushing to her face. He laughs brightly, his breath warm on her neck, and she wants to hear his laugh again— she loves to make him laugh, even when it’s only at her clumsiness.
Lisa wonders what it is about her that Twelve is so drawn to; she can’t possibly possess any qualities redeemable enough for anyone to be so interested in someone like her. She also wonders when he will grow tired of her and abandon her like the rag doll she feels like most days.
Now Twelve’s hands are tousling her hair, probably messing it up. Regardless, she allows herself to revel in the feeling.
No one touches her so gently. Just grips her arms hard enough to bruise and shoves her, jabs her. She can’t remember how many bruises, bumps, and scrapes her body had accumulated throughout high school alone.
She also can’t remember a time when her mother would stroke her hair, caress her back, and sing her lullabies.
“Hey,” Twelve says again, but quieter, “don’t make that face.” And then his hand is resting on her cheek, and then tracing her lips. Lisa doesn’t know what to say, hardly ever knows what to say to this boy.
So she leans into him.