They are reading a very old book, cover soft and crumbling, pages brittle and yellowed, print small and faded. Sitting on his couch with the gooseneck lamp bent and twisted so that the light falls directly on the pages, he holds the book before him. By increments she has gradually moved closer to him until her body presses lightly against his right side. He hardly dares to breathe.
Still she cannot get the print to focus. In exasperation, she grasps his right arm and lifts it over her head, bringing it down across her shoulders as she leans forward, bringing her face against the side of his chest and closer to the pale lettering. His hand clenches and then so carefully, so gently, closes about her right shoulder. Suddenly realizing what she has done, she freezes. He does not move. He makes some sort of inarticulate noise, questioning. "yes", she breathes, so faintly only his ears could have heard.
His left hand slowly closes the book, reaching over the side of the couch to lay it on the small table. Hesitantly, so slowly, it comes back across her body until it almost touches her right arm, hovering there. "yes", she breathes again, not daring to hope.
He lays his hand gently upon her arm, enclosing her in the circle of his arms for the first time. By infinitesimal increments she relaxes against him until her head rest lightly against the curve between his shoulder and his neck, her breath soft against his skin. They sit without moving for an unmeasurable amount of time - 5 minutes? An hour? His internal clock is not functioning. So slowly, so softly, his left hand ghosts down her right arm from shoulder to elbow and back again. He barely breathes. "yes", he says.