They were both "day" kinds of people. He was out in it enough that the scent of it clung to his skin and only made her love it more — the scent of day with the clear blue sky behind the evergreens, the blazing yellow sun kissing his skin with waves of warmth, the faint brush of sea air whenever the wind carried it past the pines. Day was sweeter when he embodied it, full of life and energy and excitement.
But after the sun had slipped away and they lay nestled in the sea of grass with only the moon and a smattering of stars, quiet but for the sound of the waves and their breaths, she knew that wasn't all of him. He said nothing, and that silence was all that was needed — not lifeless, but pregnant with meaning that the bustle of the day could never quite convey, no matter how vocal. It was at night when he stopped talking that the silence voiced everything for him. At night, his soft, sweet touches and unmoving presence conveyed more than words could say. At night, he dropped every mask for a time when he could simply be, and she saw more of him in those moments than she had seen of anyone in her life.
At one time she never imagined it would be so, but when she saw the big, bright moon engulfed by the dark blue sea of his eyes, an expanse so much like the one above them now, she knew that he was a night person, too.