Held.

It had been so long since she had held him, or since he had held her; either no more less or significant than the other. She remembered what it felt like for his strong arms to embrace her frame with just enough pressure to neither bring her discomfort nor dissatisfy her. She remembered how warm he was, how the heat of his body had clung to her skin hours after he released her from his grasp. She remembered what it felt like for her to press the side of her face against his chest, still feeling him beneath his clothing.
He held her, merely three days ago. She holds her cheek, now, still feeling the warmth of his body against the side of her face that had been so carefully placed in the cavity of his chest. Her ear still continues to feel hot, and her eyelashes still have the sensation of brushing against his soft shirt. She felt his arms entangle her torso, his tall frame slightly bending to meet her shorter one, but leaving as little room as possible between them. She remembered feeling the slight rumble of his low voice through his chest as he spoke to her while holding her.
Him holding her is more significant than her ever holding him, she has now just come to realize. Because she had dreamt of holding him again for years and had every ability of doing so in her mind, grasping onto the echos and remnants of the sensation from years ago. But nothing could replace the new sensation that came about when he moved forward to embrace her. It was unlike anything she had felt years ago, because of the depravity she had had of him. The man that held her three days ago was still the boy that held her three years ago, and that made all the difference. Because she was not expecting that.