In the summertime she leaves her beloved chair by the window and reads in bed while waiting for him to come home in the evenings, trading hot, dry summer air and warm glass for cool sheets.
He's come to expect it, now; July brings not only flowers and sun, but long-winded novels opened atop pillows and the shifting of pristine fabric across bare skin. He's memorized the line of her shoulder and neck, the look of quiet happiness upon seeing him (more welcoming than anything she could have said.) and the strategic draping of blankets as she shifts to accommodate for him. (a rare moment of girlish modesty that he finds slightly funny. As she's in the habit of prancing about quite unabashedly in her undergarments on especially hot nights.)
She rearranges herself again, draping an arm over his chest and propping herself up with her free elbow, (a slightly awkward, but achingly affectionate position.) quietly taking in the tired eyes and pressing a chaste little kiss against the line of his jaw. Questions soon follow-- are you hungry? Tired? Too hot? (I can move if you want, really)—it's too hot for you to even be out—idle, concerned murmuring that serves only to fill the silence during which she smoothes away the stresses of the day and does away with his tie (an article of clothing that she has little to no patience for and believes to be slightly evil—if clothes are capable of such things).
Each little flitting movement and touch and exchange is a facet of their little routine, a normal couple's 'I missed you's and 'I'm glad you're back's.
Her book of choice has fallen aside by now, its corner making itself known against the small of his back. It's no matter though, a detail as insignificant as a cough. With the summer air sweet and heavy around them even in the perpetual shade of the bedroom (the blinds haven't been drawn since mid-July), all that matters are the subtle touches shared between them and the softness of the moment as night creeps in.