The inclement climate of San Francisco often results in a significant differential in temperature, cloud cover, and precipitation from one hour to the next. As such, Spock is unsurprised to find that Nyota has chosen to leave her jacket behind when she leaves for her class.
As it is warmer than it was that morning, it would be illogical to carry it when she does not need to. Furthermore, she is planning to return to his apartment at the conclusion of her lecture, so if she needs the garment the next day it will still be accessible to her.
The fact that he particularly enjoys seeing an item that belongs to her so casually, mindlessly draped over a chair may be pertinent, but he does not let himself dwell on that. Instead, he carefully folds it so that it does not wrinkle, and moves it from its hazardous position on the back of the chair to hang it neatly over the arm.
When it is gone in the morning, he assumes that she has brought it with her to her morning Xenolinguistics Club meeting. He spends no further thought on it, other than to briefly consider the fact that he would not have objected to its presence as a continued, quiet reminder of her own existence in his life, even when she is not physically near him.
…
"Nyota," he calls to her and halfway down the hallway of his apartment building she turns back towards him, her hair whipping over her shoulder with the abrupt motion.
"Oh, thanks," she says with a smile when he holds her comm charger out to her. "I was going to leave it since I feel like I'm here more than I'm in my dorm, but it's probably better to have. Logical, right?"
He attempts to determine whether or not she spends more of her time in his apartment than her dormitory. However, as he is not certain as to the proportion of her day when she is not in his home that she spends either at class or the gym or the library, rather than in her room, his calculations are slightly delayed.
In the space of his hesitation, she stands on her toes and brushes a kiss to his cheek.
"See you tonight?" she asks, bestowing another smile on him and he does not stop himself from letting their fingers touch, and then tangle.
"Have a pleasant day," he tells her and she's gone again, disappearing into the turbolift. He lets himself watch the doors slide closed and the indicator lights tick down to the ground floor before returning to his quarters to finish his own morning preparations.
…
"I don't have to leave that there."
He spends so long admiring the way her hair is plastered to her breasts and back, the way water slides over her skin, and the gracefulness with which she steps from his shower that by the time she smirks at him and raises an eyebrow in what he is rather certain is an imitation of himself, he has quite forgotten that he was rearranging their toothbrushes.
"It is more orderly to leave them thusly," he responds, attempting to refocus his attention from the sight of her bare body.
"Is it?" she asks as she reaches past him for a towel in what he estimates must be a deliberate gesture, as there is already a clean one hanging directly next to the shower stall. He cannot bring himself to mind the spurious nature of the action and instead chooses to concentrate on the beads of moisture that cling to her shoulder.
"It is," he assures her, taking a step closer to her, and then another one.
"I just showered," she says with a slow smile, the kind of which that begins as a small grin and ends as a throaty laugh when he lifts her onto the counter next to the sink.
"How convenient, as this would otherwise be an unhygienic place to sit."
"You put me here," she says as she pokes his shoulder with one finger, but by the time he can begin to formulate a reply her hands have dropped to his waistband and all thoughts of appropriate, sanitary places to engage in such acts are summarily pushed aside, and then thoroughly forgotten.
…
"I can get that," she says quickly, moving to gather her silverware and plate when he reaches for it.
"It is no matter," he assures her, as she is engrossed in her notes for her Intermediate Stellar Navigation exam. While he has responsibilities of his own to complete before the evening ends, she has been exceptionally anxious as to her success on her test and he does not wish to interrupt her studies for something as mundane as dishes.
"I feel bad, you cooked."
"You feel bad?" he asks, stacking her plate on his own and placing their forks and knives on top. "Explain."
"Well, it's just…" She pauses and takes a moment to brush her hair behind her ears. He focuses on the movement not only because he recognizes it as an indication of distress on her part, but also because of the graceful sweep of her fingers and the way a few loose strands still fall in front of her face. It is a markedly informal sight and one that contrasts so sharply with her normally immaculate appearance that the intimacy of the moment makes something in his chest constrict.
He interrupts whatever her reasoning might be by leaning towards her, tipping her chin up with a finger, and pressing a kiss to her mouth.
"You are preoccupied with your preparations for your exam. I will join you with my own work once I have finished this."
"Ok," she says slowly, then gives him a small smile, no more than a quirk of her lips. She raises her face up further in invitation of a second kiss. "If you don't mind."
"I would not offer if I did," he assures her but cannot help but note that she does not look entirely convinced.
…
He wonders if he will ever grow tired of this, and then decides that notion is categorically and unequivocally impossible.
He draws his fingers through the damp beads of sweat that gather on her lower back, a result of their intimacy as well as the temperature of his quarters. She has assured him, repeatedly, that she does not expect him to adjust the environmental controls for her comfort and he finds that as logical as compromise is, he is not contrite regarding the ways in which her body flushes and warms in the climate he prefers.
She makes a discontented sound when he finally stops sweeping his hands over the bare curves of her hips and waist in order to move her off of him. While he would not be resistant to continuing to indulge in the flitting echoes of pleasure that pass between them where their skin touches, the mounting necessity of certain tasks escalates in him until he can no longer ignore it.
He returns to the bedroom with a glass of water for her, which she cups in two hands and sips from as he tucks in the sheet and comforter that one of them must have kicked loose, and then locates the various components of their uniforms and undergarments from next to the bed.
"Stop cleaning and get back here," she instructs, placing the glass on the nightstand. She holds out both hands to him and he hesitates, not finished folding her sweater, looking back and forth between it and her clear invitation.
"A moment," he requests, and hurries to finish the task, not neglecting to track down an errant sock from beneath the bed, nor retrieve a coaster so that the condensation from her water glass does not mar the surface it rests on.
"Sorry," she says quickly, watching him adjust the glass and rubbing her hands over her thighs in a rather quick way that seems to speak to some amount of disquiet or chagrin, though he cannot determine a logical reason for such.
…
"I'll just take that," she tells him as he straightens her Cardassian Orthography text where it rests next to the stack of padds he has to grade for his advanced Vulcan literature seminar.
She tucks it into her bag without further explanation, so that the only objects that remain on his coffee table are the quizzes awaiting his attention and his tea. She holds her own mug cradled in one hand where she sits cross legged on his couch, the flash cards she is reviewing neatly balanced on her knees.
"Are you done with your Orthography paper?" he asks. He was not aware of her having completed it, but if she has it may allow them some time to put aside their work for the evening. The opportunities they have to spend time together of a personal nature is often necessarily limited by their chosen careers and he would be more than willing to stay awake after she retires for bed to finish his own work if her foresight for completing her own engenders a chance for conversation, among other compelling and diverting activities they could engage in.
"Not yet, I'll get it out later."
She draws her hand down his forearm as she says it but otherwise her attention hardly wavers from her memorization of Andorian past participles.
While he often finds himself contemplating the shape of her profile, the curve of her mouth, or the fall of her long hair far longer than is necessary or logical, he does so tonight out of not just aesthetic appreciation but also a compulsion to understand why, if she remains in need of the text, would she squirrel it away instead of leaving it readily available near where they are working.
She gives him a small smile when she notices him still watching her, but offers no further answer or explanation, so he is left to ponder it while he begins the tedious and laborious task of grading assignments.
…
Vulcan homes have no place for chocolate bars, so he is therefore quite stymied by his attempt to find a suitable place to store such. He has no baking supplies, so while Nyota prefers dark chocolate with a high ratio of cocoa, the type of which is suitable for such pursuits, it cannot reside beside flour and sugar much as it might in a Terran cupboard arrangement. Likewise, he rarely purchases snack food, as consuming such between meals does not aid in proper nutrition, so he has no ability to place it with items such as chips or crackers. It is not produce so it seems incongruous to attempt to put it with the assortment of apples, hi'rat, bananas, and kaasa he had on his counter. Similarly, it is not tea, nor does it need to be in the refrigerator, nor does it belong with his arrangement of Vulcan spices.
In lieu of being able to determine a proper storage location, he leaves the chocolate isolated on the counter, intending to return to the matter after he has had a chance to consult with Nyota as to the correct placement of such an item.
When it has gone missing after her next visit to his quarters he is left with only two logical conclusions: either she consumed the entire bar or she took it with her when she left. The first seems impossible and the second improbable. Impossible because she was there for such a short duration that he cannot determine a time in which she would have eaten it without him having observed her doing so. Improbable because he cannot answer why she would bring a preferred food to his apartment only to remove it again so quickly.
At that thought, he attempts to locate others examples of her dietary preferences in his kitchen and finds he is unable to do so. He had bought her a supply of the tea she enjoys as a gift some time ago, but she has consumed all of it and he has not found the same type in stock since then. They purchase the ingredients necessary for the meals they cook at the time they prepare them, and they efficiently and effectively eat any leftovers for subsequent lunches and dinners, so there is little evidence of those foodstuffs either.
In fact, nowhere in his kitchen there is any indication that he shares so many meals with someone else. Earlier he had put away the dishes from their breakfast and the result of such actions renders it as if the meal never even occurred. When he inspects his replicator, he finds that despite the fact that she uses it often she has failed to program any of her oft ordered favorites into the allotted slots on the main screen. Instead, the ten pre-sets are for the same Vulcan dishes as have always been there with none of the ones she prefers in evidence.
The lack of indication that he eats with her so often leaves him strangely unsettled and it is with that thought that he enters the main room of his apartment, casting about for an indicator of her presence there. He finds nothing: no padds, no articles of clothing, not a stray belonging of hers anywhere in sight.
His bedroom is much the same way, as bare and sparse as it had been before she began spending so many nights there. In the bathroom the resounding absence of her toiletries could speak to her lack of duplicate supplies if she needed them in order to shower at the gym that day, but she had remarked just that morning that she was tired and would likely not engage in exercise.
Nor, he realizes, did she intimate that she would return to his quarters after her classes.
He sits for longer than is necessary on his couch, casting around the room as if he can conjure some indication of her presence there, but the effort is in vain.
It is discomforting, but Nyota has never been less than open, sincere, and honest with him so he attempts to not take the lack of her presence in his quarters as any type of negative indication.
It is harder to do than it should be, but he is Vulcan and therefore wholly in control of his emotions, including the small twinge in his stomach and tightening in his throat that the consideration of all of this engenders.
…
He spends the next week far more aware of the small ways in which he acts around her than is strictly necessary.
He removes her coat from where she drapes it over a chair in order to hang it next to his own on the rack next to the door, straightens her towel on its hook so that it will dry evenly before her next shower, and places her discarded clothes on top of his bureau with care so that she will not have trouble locating them when she wakes and dresses. He refolds the blanket he keeps on the back of the couch whenever she moves it so that it remains neat and immaculate for her and replaces the small cushions as well so that they are in easy reach if she chooses to use one to relax against.
He makes the bed so that she will not have to interrupt her morning routine to do so and replaces the milk she removes from the refrigerator to pour into her tea so that she can focus on enjoying her breakfast, rather than tidying up from its preparations. Similarly, he ensure that the various textbooks and padds that are necessary for her homework and studies are organized and placed upon his table so that they are readily accessible to her, and when he finds her favorite stylus on his desk, places it with the rest of her school materials so that she does not have to spend time searching for it.
Paradoxically and inexplicably, these attentions serve to somehow aggravate her and lead to a consternation on her part that he perceives more than once when he touches her, no matter that she is becoming increasing and admiringly adept at shielding such thoughts from him, an unsurprising occurrence considering her talent when it comes to any form of communication.
He attributes much of her nettlesome attitude to the inescapable fact of midterms, which in his estimation routinely prove to be a time of great stress for most humans of his acquaintance and Nyota, with her attention to her academic record and her proclivity towards the perfection of such, is hardly immune to anxiety at such a time.
As such, it is unsurprising when she returns from a Subspace Physics exam in less than a pleasant mood and he resolves to alleviate her displeasure with the test as best he can.
"What would you like for dinner?" he asks.
"I'm too tired to eat."
"As your glycemic stores are likely depleted after so many hours of concentration, it is to be expected that your energy levels will improve after partaking of a meal."
He does not understand why his explanation, logical as it is, causes her to frown.
She does not explain her emotional response, just gives him a look he can only categorize as exasperated and bends to remove her boots. When she straightens again and begins to unzip her jacket, he leans down to rearrange her shoes so that they are not in the way of where she normally places her school bag, which is still slung across her shoulder.
"Why is that such a big deal?"
"Pardon?"
"My boots being there. Why is that not ok?"
He does not know what to say to that, so he says nothing, the result of which only seems to inflate her ire.
"Is it really such a problem that I don't line my shoes up neatly against the wall?" she asks, her arms crossed over her chest and her gaze hard and unflinching.
"No," he answers, but confused as he is it comes out less certain than he intends.
"Oh my God," she mutters, pushing a fistful of hair back off of her face and holding it there, her knuckles and fingers uncommonly tense. "I can't do this right now."
"Cannot do what?" he asks carefully, looking at her for any indication or explanation of what she might mean.
"This," she answers and has her boots back on and is gone from his apartment before he can begin to process such an illogical response.
"Nyota?" he asks of the blank, gray surface of his door, but it is as unavailing of answers as she had been.
…
The first time she fails to answer her comm he is quite able to explain to himself that she likely needs to focus on her schoolwork, which also serves as an apt reason she was less than agreeable the during their most recent conversation.
The second time he receives her voicemail instead of her actual presence on the other end of the line, he likewise encourages himself not to be alarmed.
By the third, he admits he is experiencing a fair amount of disquiet and attempts to quell the sweeping distress that threatens to wash over him.
It is not that he does not have his own work to attend to, and between that and personal pursuits such as the daily chores of grocery shopping and laundry, speaking to his limited friends, and engaging in exercise among other leisure pursuits, he is quite able to fill the hours he normally spends with her.
He assumes that she will contact him when she is able and despite an overarching impulse to attempt to seek her out, he does not venture into the mess hall when he is certain she will be there and he does not run on any of the paths near her dorm. He does not wish to be overbearing, and yet the compulsion to see her nearly undoes his aspiration to give her the space she seems to need.
Regardless, the abject silence and growing concern for their situation compounds with his uncertainty of what exactly transpired the last time they interacted. He is, to say the least, confused, and though he is loath to admit it finds that he is not able to deduce a logical reason for her reticence to speak with him.
When she continues to avoid contacting him, the small knot in his stomach threatens to balloon into an ever more severe psychosomatic reaction and he considers what options he might have at his disposal. He contemplates the social contacts he has available for advice concerning personal issues such as these, but cannot bring himself to consider asking his mother or Captain Pike, much as he has for other interpersonal issues he has encountered in the past. That leaves his father as the most logical resource for such matters, a fact that does not explain why Spock does not immediately call him.
However, as is wont to happen in times of emotional turmoil and to Spock's great consternation, his father is able to ascertain through their familial bond his desire to converse, as well as his reluctance to do just that.
"What is troubling you?" he asks when Spock finally brings himself to answer the ringing of his comm. His father's expression, as ever, is perfectly serene and calm with a peacefulness Spock finds himself envious of. The shame of suffering an emotion such as envy only serves to exacerbate his already mercurial mood and he finds himself no less than irascible.
"Nothing I cannot solve through meditation, Father."
"You failed to answer my question."
"I am aware."
"Spock," his father says, his voice low and gentle in a way that despite the deep tenor and intonation reminiscent of an upbringing in Shi'Kahr somehow invokes a memory of Nyota's similar entreaty.
"I do not wish to engage in a discussion on the matter," Spock says, his tone more abrupt than he intended.
His father just watches him and even with a distance of over sixteen light years, the gaze feels just as piercing through the monitor as it would if Spock was in his father's study, captured under his steady attention as if he is a child again.
"Humans are often perplexing," his father begins and despite himself, Spock feels both his expression tighten as well as his curiosity pique.
"That is hardly the issue," he says and then quickly convinces himself it is not a lie as Nyota's boots are really the matter at stake, not her species.
"I do not pretend to understand them," his father continues and Spock is forced to reconcile the fact that having been married to his mother for nearly thirty years, not only does his father understand that many if not all issues in Spock's life very likely arise from his relationship with Nyota, but also that despite such a lengthy marriage and associated courtship, his father is no closer to comprehending such puzzling and mystifying matters as those that stem from such a relationship.
"Nyota is exceptionally logical, rational, and well reasoned," Spock assures his father, who just nods with great gravity and sincerity.
"As is your mother. However."
"However?" Spock prompts when his father fails to explicate further.
"However," Sarek repeats, so earnestly and so gravely that Spock can only nod, wondering at exactly how illogical humans can be, and the notion that they may be so in ways that he has yet to encounter despite four years at the Academy and his time as a commission officer beyond that.
"What do you advise?"
His father who serves on the Vulcan High Council, who is a counselor of the Vulcan Science Academy, and who has spent much of his adult life in the prestigious position of Vulcan Ambassador to Earth, hesitates.
"Unclear," he finally says and if Spock did not know better, might interpret the expulsion of breath his father makes as a sigh.
...
He is surprised to return from his History and Philosophy of Interspecies Ethics seminar to find Nyota leaning against the wall outside his unit, one leg folded so that the sole of her boot rests against the wall, her back similarly braced, and a padd held near her waist as she studies it. It is a posture that suggests she has been there for some time and he wonders at that, unable to ascertain a reason she would not just enter his quarters as she has possessed an access code for some time now.
When she sees him approaching, she bends to pick up her bag, tucking a loose lock of hair behind her ear as she does so.
"I didn't want to, like, break into your apartment or anything," she says, gesturing to his door.
When he doesn't answer, she presses her lips together and casts a look at his door, then back up at him. He follows the direction of her gaze and sees a small black smudge left by her boot on the normally pristine white paint.
"I'm sorry I got mad at you," Nyota says, ducking her head and grimacing so that her nose wrinkles. "I was being cranky and I'm obviously an enormous grouch sometimes and that's terrible of me and I shouldn't take it out on you."
He does not know a suitable response to that. As he is quite apprehensive about saying the wrong thing given that he remains unable to ascertain what the initial conflict was about or why she has suddenly appeared in the hallway of his apartment building, he settles for simply greeting her with, "Hello."
To his continuing bewilderment with the situation this makes her laugh and she looks up at him, her outburst of amusement tempered into a shy smile.
"You're not mad at me?"
He considers his father's counsel that even after three decades he does not fully understand Spock's mother, and finds that the notion that it may take just as long to comprehend the idiosyncrasies of Nyota's behavior markedly believable.
"I am confused," he admits.
"Can we talk?" she asks, nodding her head to his door and as that is the thing he has craved most over the intervening period of silence between them, he does not hesitate to disengage the lock, nor usher her inside.
Once ensconced in his quarters, the sight of her there is achingly familiar and comforting and he instinctively holds his hand out for her coat so that he can take it from her and place it next to his on the hooks intended for that purpose.
"No," she says to his surprise, stepping back from him in a way that makes his heart pound sickeningly in his side. She twists the garment in her hands and he watches her take a deep breath, wishing for the control with which to do the same. Instead, his breathing remains shallow and too fast, the sound harsh in his ears.
"Nyota?"
"Sometimes I like to put my jacket on the chair, or on the couch, or even on the floor next to my bag."
"I am aware," he answers carefully, slowly, not understanding her physical withdraw, nor her explanation of something so obvious and observable as her historic placement of her jacket around his apartment.
"And sometimes I like to leave clothes right next to the bed so that they're right there when I wake up in the morning."
"You do that often, though I admit I was unaware of the reasoning behind that action," he says just as slowly as before, her words bringing to mind the ache of the recent nights he has slept alone without her curled next to him.
"And I don't always do my dishes as soon as I'm done with them. Sometimes I would rather do them later, at the end of the day or the next morning."
"I am more than capable of cleaning our dishes," he tells her, hoping that there will be continued scenarios in which her dishes need to be cleaned. Washing a single plate, fork, and cup has become an endeavor in abject loneliness in a way he did not think was possible from such an unremarkable task.
"That's not the point, Spock."
"I do not understand," he says and as he does so he wonders if it would be permissible to move closer to her. He does not, but the impulse remains, leaving him on the verge of an arrested movement. "Will you explain?"
"I just… I always feel like you don't even want me here."
"I do not…" he starts, shaken from the juxtaposition of her words as they combine with the recollection of her slight weight dipping the mattress and the soft sounds of her breathing while she sleeps, the memory of the dozens of meals they have eaten together at his table and the hours they have spent on his couch. "You believe that…"
"That I'm in the way, Spock. I'm always in your way and you're always cleaning up after me like you can't stand me being in your space! And that's fine, I get it, it's your apartment and I probably spend way too much time here and you need privacy and I don't know, maybe you don't know how to ask for that, or maybe this is just a little too much, too fast, how often we see each other and I just-"
She cuts herself off by inhaling a deep breath, the sound grating and disjointed. She doesn't quite look at him, her attention cutting to the side, and then up to the ceiling as she stares at it. He watches her jaw clench and her eyelids flutter compulsively, and then watches her tuck her jacket under her arm and raise both hands to her face so that she can swipe her thumbs under her eyes.
They come away wet and he swallows.
"Nyota…"
"It's fine," she says, her teeth grazing over her lower lip. "I just wanted to, you know, talk to you about this before it became more of a thing that it is already."
"You can leave your jacket wherever you wish," he assures her in order that she cease crying immediately.
"No, Spock. I mean, thanks, but we need to discuss actual boundaries. I could probably spend every minute of every day with you but I don't want to impose and I obviously have been, and I'd rather take things slow now so that maybe in the future we can…" She trails off again and takes a long, shaky breath.
"Nyota?"
"I just don't want to mess this up with you, it's too important to me. You're too important to me," she says in a tremulous voice. She gives him a watery smile and then looks away again, studying a spot over his left shoulder before she drops her gaze to her hands, which are twisting against each other.
He is unsure of what to say and in his attempt to decide on the most apt response, he settles on one that may have benefited from more consideration.
"My father reports that he still does not understand my mother."
"What?"
"I do not know the proper organizational method for chocolate."
"Spock?"
"It would be impossible for you to be here every minute of every day since our duties to Starfleet preclude such extended leisure time. However, within the bounds of our professional lives, I do not find that aspiration to be grossly exaggerated on behalf of my own desires, nor do I find it off putting. Rather, I am quite in favor of the idea."
"You always move my stuff," she tells him and while she crosses her arms as she says it, her tears have thankfully dried.
"I wish you to be comfortable."
"It feels like you need everything to be neat and clean and perfect."
"I do not wish for you to interrupt your studies, your rest, or the limited time you have in which to relax in order to attend to such mundane tasks." She does not look convinced, but the tightness of her arms has slacked considerably and he risks taking a step closer. When she does not retreat, he repeats the motion and finds himself close enough to reach out and touch her, though he does not. "I did not intend to suggest you are unwelcome. Rather, the inverse of such."
"Really?" she asks and despite her apparent need for further verbal verification of his intentions, illogical as multiple assurances are, she reaches out and gathers the hem of his shirt between her thumb and forefinger, rubbing at the fabric in a way that proves quite distracting.
"I will immediately cease rearranging or organizing your belongings."
"I don't want to make a mess in your home," she tells him, lightly pulling on his shirt.
"You are not a hindrance, nor a bother," he assures her, the very notion that she might have thought she was being so causing him to wish for a more tactile mode of reconciliation, one which will assuage any continued disquietude on either of their behalves. "That was not my intent. I wish for you to be comfortable here."
"Really?" she asks again.
"Yes."
She gives him a long, searching look and the fact she has not removed her hand from his shirt, nor has she moved away from him, leads him to risk raising both hands to cup her shoulders.
"You're sure?"
"I said that I was."
She squints up at him as if attempting to determine the veracity of his statements, then draws in a breath and nods.
"Spock," she says, her voice low and serious.
"Yes, Nyota?"
She tosses her jacket in the general direction of the coat rack, though it falls short and ends up in a crumpled pile of red fabric on the rug of his foyer.
"Does that bother you?"
He does not let himself look at it.
"I will adjust."
"Will even more clothing left in various places on the floor of your apartment exacerbate the problem?"
He quickly calculates her intention when she begins to edge up the hem of his shirt.
"I believe there is only one way in which to ascertain that," he answers, already bending down to her when she wraps her arm around his neck and tugs at him.
"Logical," she agrees against his mouth.
It is not until well into the next day that he even begins to contemplate what to do about the fact of their clothing strewn across his apartment, and it is not until the afternoon that he brings himself to take any action towards resolving such. He finds, foreign as the procrastination of such a necessary task is, Nyota's presence serves to be a suitable distraction and though he does not admit it out loud, he realizes that he may be more inclined than he initially believed himself to be towards delaying such chores if the activities with which he is engaged in the interim remain as diverting and enjoyable.
And further, irrespective of his own desires surrounding the matter, the smile with which she greets the sight of him rearranging his belongings in his dresser in order to make available a drawer for her personal use merits the consideration of what future actions he can take in order to cause her such joy, the likes of which were the intended cause of his attentions in the first place.
"For me?" she asks, drawing a finger along the edge of the drawer.
He touches her cheek and the tingle of her happiness warms his entire arm. When she smiles at him for a second time, he finds himself quite unable to resist returning it with one of his own.
"It is only logical," he says, attempting to staunch such an emotive expression and finding, as he does so, that the only way in which to expeditiously stop smiling is to bend down and kiss her.