There were times he felt her. In the moments between sleeping and waking, he'd think they were on Galactica in his quarters, or that she was on Colonial One but would be coming to see him soon. Then he'd awaken and remember.
He heard her voice when he was building their cabin. Their entire property was according to her specifications.
He felt her kisses in the wind, saw her in the sunrises and sunsets. Those were the times he spoke to her the most.
He still tripped over her shoes. They were in the middle of the floor, just as they'd always been.
Every time he went into their closet, he smelled her. Her suits, his uniforms, and his robe: They all had her scent.
Sometimes he almost forgot. He'd sit on his sofa, watching the door, expecting her to knock any moment. It didn't matter that it was their home; she'd always knock. That was just her way.
When he remembered again, he'd stop watching the door and start dinner.
He always cooked for two, trying to make what she liked. She had never been picky, but she never ate enough. He wanted to change that.
One morning, he woke up, and she was there, in their bed.
"Laura?"
"Hi, Bill."
"Are you real?"
"What do you think?"
"I want you to be."
"That's all that matters, isn't it?"
It was her. Her smile, her beautiful hair, those eyes-they were particularly bright in the sunlight. He stroked her cheek, and she held his hand there.
"How?"
She smiled. "You always did ask the practical questions."
He remembered all that had been between them.
"You were pretty pragmatic yourself, Madame President."
"I missed you, Bill." Life was boring without him around.
"Me too."
"I love you."
"It's about time."