She comes to him in the middle of the night and doesn t say a word.
Neither does he.
Fingers travel and shirts slide off, his sleeping bag is kicked away.
It s quiet. Quick. When it s over she lies in his arms and tries not to notice the wedding band pressing into her hip.
Jane wakes up to a cooling space beside him and a tent flap moving gently in the morning breeze. Shrugging a shirt and some trousers on, he shuffles outside, squinting in the light.
It s early. The rest of the team are still asleep in their tents. Lisbon s sitting by the remains of the fire, dark hair tangled and a thick red cardigan wrapped around her small frame.
Morning, he says, voice hoarse, still tasting her on his lips.
She doesn t answer, things are different now and she can t help but feel like she s committed some crime they may have not broken any official laws, but she s still angry at herself, at her weakness. Sleeping with a colleague (again), the cliche leaves a bad taste in the back of her throat. (She can still feel the ring pressing into her skin, feels like she s been branded.) You should go back to sleep, she says finally, an edge to her voice, staring straight down at the blackened earth and charred wood by her feet.
Jane sighs, rubbing at bleary eyes as he sits down next to her, pushes hair back from his face and clears his throat, I don t regret it, last night... I don t feel like it was a mistake. He watches her as he speaks, sees her forehead crease, sees the brief flash of teeth cross her bottom lip.
She sighs heavily, then rests her head on his shoulder.
'So, what happens now?' she whispers into the hollow of his neck. Gooseflesh rises there at her breath; he wishes he knew what to say.