He had come home later than he meant to, and she was already in bed with a book. He got in with her, slowly, cold hands tucked into his own chest so as not to shock her. She made room without looking up from the page. When she finally did look up she saw the look on his face and set the book down on the nightstand. Neither of them was in a hurry. His hand traced along her collarbone, not pressing, not asking for anything. The room was warm. The light was low. She turned her face into his palm, and he touched her forehead with his and stayed there a long moment with his breathing slow.
