He is quiet in the mornings. They have fallen into an unspoken routine- Once she is dressed, she knocks and opens the door connecting their rooms. She makes the coffee, he gets the food. They sit on the edge of her bed, sipping and eating, talking very little.
He brings her fruit. Cantaloupe, when he can find it. She loves that about him. She makes their coffee stronger than she prefers it, for his sake. He loves that about her.
Her hair dries naturally, soft and feathery, in fluffy waves. Freckles, usually hidden by makeup, pepper her nose unashamedly. She pads over to him, barefoot, coffee in hand. He loves it when she looks like this- young and innocent, smaller, and unencumbered by the troubles of this life she has chosen.
She doesn't know why she lets him see her like this, unfinished and vulnerable, and she doesn't pause to examine her behavior. If she did, however, she might find that her openness is an expression of trust. Her naked face and unruly hair and heelless feet are like the little pieces of her heart that she places his care. The raw honesty of her appearance is the best way she can express that, consciously or unconsciously.
She hopes that he understands it, even if she doesn't.
"You are beautiful," he says, but not aloud. He says it, though, in the way that he breathes in the coffee that she hands him and in the way that he ties his shoelaces and in the way that he quietly flips through the case file once again.
He doesn't know why he can't tell her outright. At least, that's what he tells himself.
"I love you," he says in the way that he butters his toast and in the way that he watches the sun come up through the gap in the blinds.
He doesn't speak, but he hopes that she hears him.
She rises from the edge of the bed. She covers her freckles and polishes her hair. She hardens her eyes and steps into heels. Defenses in place, she turns off the bathroom light.
And then, once again, they leave the motel, all business.