343 words.
Gwen came home at around three. In the morning. It wasn't anything unusual, given Torchwood's hours, but it was not fair. Not to her, or to Rhys.
Her fiancée was asleep. Probably, since Gwen couldn't see much from the front door. The Torchwood operative in her persisted that they should make their house easier to defend, easier to see foes in. But then the Rhys's girlfriend part of her chipped in, saying that something in their life—just something, was it too much to ask—could be free from her job, free from its stress.
As Rhys was asleep, and she would continue to think that until it was proven otherwise, Gwen tiptoed through the flat, carefully putting her purse, shoes, gun, and coat next to the door. It was pretty dark, and she couldn't see where she was going. Luckily, with skill born of practice, Gwen made her way into the bedroom without any accidents.
She found Rhys, just like she thought, asleep. He was spread out over the bed, the blanket around him. Loud, ungentlemanly snores floated from him to Gwen's ears. She had to smile at that. The trait, while common in all men, was so uniquely Rhys, because, when she moved closer, he always grew silent.
She moved away from the bedroom door and to the bathroom, to brush her teeth, wash her hands, use the toilet, and change into the pajamas that Rhys had caringly placed in the bathroom. When she returned to the bedroom, Rhys—bless him—had moved to his side of the bed.
With a smile, Gwen climbed in next to him. She felt him flinch away when her cold feet made contact with his warm ones, but then pay it no mind and shift back closer to her.
Gwen let his arms hold her, just like he always does. He's warn, like a big, soft security blanket. She can't sleep without him.
"I love you," she says, unthinking.
Somewhere deep down in his brain, the part unaffected by sleep, Rhys smiles. She hasn't said that in 37 days.
I don't know why 37 days. I have a weird attraction to that number (not the John Hart kind of attraction). It's just my favorite number.