They're lying on the bed, fully clothed for once, and he has his face buried in her hair, breathing softly into the honey curls, and an arm around her waist; she's drawing circles on the back of his hand, trying to decide if he's asleep.
It's quiet and peaceful here, the bed is not as empty any more, and she misses being here, in the spot in his arms where she feels like she matters.
Every now and then she feels the pang of guilt, the skip of the beat of her heart from fear and regret when she thinks of what's coming next. The storm is coming: lightning strike of angry words and rain of lies and piercing cold of betrayl, and the storm is coming the same as it did before because once upon a time there were a team of their own, before the thunder came and broke them down.
She wants that again, if she's really honest with her thoughts. If it was an option she had left, to take his hand and run away from honor and duty and pride, from jobs and lies, until they were alone against the world once more, she would do so in a heartbeat. But not these heartbeats, not now, because she's already missed her chance.
She missed it three years ago.
He takes a deep breath, a soft sound that whistles past her ears, and she closes her eyes to forget.
The storm is coming, but for the moments she has left to be his again, she will pretend it's far out on the horizon.