Thick clouds of smoke whirled around him, their colour changing from white to grey as ash filled the air. Dust obscured his vision and his lungs burned as he strained for oxygen. A high-pitched whine invaded his ears and his shook his head in an effort to dislodge the sound. She was there amongst the smoke and debris; he could find her, if only he had move time. Layers of smoke halted him in his tracks. He could go no further. Mercifully, the ringing subsided, replaced by an unnatural silence. He opened his mouth to call for help but his voice was dry in his throat. The silence deepened, the only sound his pounding heart, knocking inside his chest, and he froze, overcome by the fear that there was no one to hear him. He was completely alone. The smoke churned around him, turning into a stygian blackness, wisps becoming sooty fingers, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

Harry gasped and his eyes flew open, his chest heaved as he sucked cleansing air into his lungs. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the room and he lay staring up at the ceiling, pulling the scattered pieces of his mind back from the nightmare and into the present. It was the same dream, every night; he should be used to it by now. He shivered. One day that black hand would touch him and not let him go.

Patterns of light danced on the plaster above his head, fading and reappearing as a soft breeze stirred the sheer material of his bedroom curtains. The air was different, fresher, cooler, a hint of autumn laced with a reassuringly familiar scent. He slowly turned his head. On the pillow next to him was a fan of dark hair and beneath that, a small shoulder peeking out from under the sheets. His heart warmed. For the first time in his life, he had awoken from a nightmare and into a dream. It all fell into place. Every loss, every trauma, every setback had been a necessary prelude in order that one day he could wake up with her.

Turning on his side, he marvelled at how still she lay, the sheets barely moving with her breath. He longed to touch her, run his hands along the shape of her, as he had done the previous night. Prove to himself that she was alive and real, to once and for all dispel with the shadows. It seemed a shame to wake her. He craned his head and looked at the bedside clock. It was coming up on eight. For a brief second, he contemplated checking his mobile and just as quickly dismissed the idea. With the utmost care, he lifted the sheet away from her shoulder, the better to see the contours of her back. Faint lines crisscrossed over a large swath of tawny coloured skin; the straps of a bathing suit he mused. Was that all that remained of her former life? Tan lines and memories. Would those memories also fade like the markings of the sun? Unable to help himself, he ran his fingers along the lines, watching the muscles of her back twitch as she stirred faintly. He traced the curve along to the base of her spine, finding the sensitive spot that made her arch away from him the night before. She wriggled away and burrowed her head deeper into her pillow, trying to reclaim sleep. Undeterred, he slid his arm around her and pulled her back against him. With a small sigh of surrender, she nestled into him and he held her, giving himself over to the reverence of the moment. The warmth of her skin sinking into his chest, vertebrae against chest bone, freshly awoken life, precious and his. He curled around her, protectively, possessively, and lost himself in the scent of her hair. As they lay together, his fingers lazily skimmed over her arm, the slender bone of her clavicle, roaming over the swell of her breast, committing the feel of her to memory. While his mind dozed, his body grew restless, stirring beside her. He drew his hand down along her stomach, fingers splayed out, pressing her hips against him, unfolding her, searching for the sweet spot he had found last night.

She gasped. He smiled.

She rippled against him, his lips tasting the back of her neck, his fingers dipping in and out, as their bodies flowed together. Her breath was hot on his arm, his chest rising with hers, heartbeats finding each other, as her body molded into him with seductive invitation. She hooked her leg around his calf and after a few graceless attempts, he sank himself into her. Muscles twisting in a sinuous dance, she arched away, shoulder blades collapsing like wings as she pushed against him. His fingers sank into the supple flesh of her hip, grinding against her, moving with growing urgency, muscles straining for leverage. She rolled onto her stomach and he followed her, his weight pressing down on her, thrusting deeper. He groaned with pleasure, she always knew best. Closing his eyes, he abandoned himself to the moment, her soft moans lacing the periphery of his consciousness. Darkness and fears forgotten, his only thoughts were of her, hot and wet and perfect. He would sell his newly found soul to wake up every morning like this. He collapsed on top of her, emitting a satisfied growl.

Not wanting to break the connection, he rested, lying half on her, his lids fluttering shut contentedly as the sun's rays reached across the bed. She stirred beneath him and he kissed her ear.

"I'm sorry, did I wake you?" he asked, not so innocently.

A low chuckle vibrated through her body, echoing in his chest. Twisting her body, she turned under him and he caught his breath at the sight of her, the effects of the muted morning light and sleep, wrapping her in a veil of youth. He could only hope the light was as kind to him. He looked at her, searching for words, having no idea what to say. Unable to hold his gaze, her eyes flitted about his chest, and she modestly pulled the sheet up over her breasts. With tentative fingers, she touched his shoulder, opening her mouth as if to speak but promptly closed it again, running her finger along the raised white ridge that was Tom' parting gift. His palm rested on her chest, fingers curling against the sheet; her scars were not so visible. He loathed to break the moment, they were so much better without words. He had never been very good with the dewy emotion of the morning after, usually avoiding it by citing a national crisis. But he wanted to stay with her. Propping himself up one an elbow, he eased the sheet down, tracing the translucent skin over her breastbone, following a faint tributary of blue veins.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked.

"I think I did, which is a rarity." She subtly edged the sheet up once more. "Did you?"

He nodded. He would not tell her about the dream. His finger hooked over the top of the sheet, gently tugging from her fingers and sliding it down, exposing a dusky nipple, which he delicately traced. His fingers stilled on their round of endless circles. "Ruth?" This time, he was the one who could not meet her eyes. "We didn't use any..."

Her lips curled in a wry smile. "I wouldn't have gotten this far in life without taking a few precautions." The smile fell from her face and her eyes clouded over, colouring a shade of deep grey. She distractedly found a strand of hair and twisted it around her finger, her gaze moving away from his shoulder, out into the room. "Your bedroom is white."

"The painters told me it was buttermilk."

"Ah, well, that's much more appetising."

"Is there something wrong with it?"

"No, no." She shifted under him. "It's not what I imagined."

He raised a brow. "You imagined my bedroom?"

A smile tugged at her lips, her eyes avoiding his. "I may have. Once or twice, on occasion."

The idea that she had thought about his bedroom made him immensely happy. The fact that she now lay naked beneath his roaming hands in said room made him even happier.

Turning back to him, she ran her fingers over the fine stubble that peppered his jaw, dipping her thumb into the pad of his chin. In all his carnal forgettings, no one had ever touched his face the way she did. He usually balked at that sort of contact, years of training having conditioned him to associate a hand near the throat with death. She had been the last one to touch his face, that day on the dock. She would be the only one. His fingers reflexively dug into her side. Thoughts like that would be his downfall. In affairs of the heart, there was the beloved and the one who loved, a perfect imbalance of affection. In all of his amorous entanglements, he had always held the power, kept a part of himself hidden, the one to walk away. He had not treated many women kindly and his misdeeds were bound to catch up to him one day but in his wildest imaginings, he had never envisioned it would be the woman who looked at him now.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"What are you thinking?" he countered, evading the question.

She licked her lips and inhaled deeply. "What do we do now?"

"Breakfast?"

He dipped his head down to her breast, taking a nipple in his mouth. eliciting from her gentle moan. She indulged him, letting him have his way, her fingers winding into his hair, giving out a faint sigh.

"Harry." He wasn't paying attention, preoccupied with his exploration of her dusky areoles. "Harry." Her voice softly chided him, getting his attention. He lifted his head and looked up at her. "I meant where do we go from here?"

He studied her. Such a creature of the finite while he lived in a world of endless variables. "We just got here, can't we enjoy it for a while."

"There's this pesky little thing called the outside world."

"It fell apart without us, remember?" He moved himself up her body, pressing his lips in the hollow of her throat.

"Ah, yes, that's right."

With his mouth on hers, he lay across her body, intent on preempting any more analytical thought. He knew how he would like to silence her, if only he were in better shape. He would not entertain the idea that age had anything to do with it.

"Harry?"

He groaned. "I am not answering any more questions. I do not yield the floor, the member from the other side of the bed has not been recognised, the debate is over." He continued to kiss her.

"I'd like to make a motion."

He raised his head and looked at her in exasperation. "What?"

"That once awoken all members of the house must be summarily fed."

He looked around the room then back at her. "Is there anyone to second that?"

"Aren't you hungry?"

"I am completely and utterly satisfied. But if pressed I could have another course."

"Harry."

He raked his teeth over the soft flesh of her breasts.

"Harry."

Refusing to listen, he pulled the sheet over his head and nibbled his way down her body. With a sigh of resignation, she gave herself over to him.

...

The stream from the shower pounded his back and he whistled a tuneless air. The hot water scalded his skin, and he soaped everything twice over, a habit he had unconsciously developed. Even now in the back of his mind, behind the images of lithe limbs and tawny skin, he felt the urge to be clean. He turned off the taps and stepped out, wrapping himself in a towel. The room swirled with steam, fogging up the mirror, and for a moment he was taken back to the day of the bombing. After hearing the final confirmation that Ros was dead, he had scrubbed himself ruthlessly, wanting to eradicate the smell of smoke, remove the stain of her death from his hands. He slumped, leaning against the vanity for support. Shit. He found a hand towel and hurriedly wiped the mirror clean, his ruddy reflection gazing back at him. He stared at it long enough to assure himself that he was alive. Stare at it too long and he would start to a question why fate had allowed him to live.

He padded back to his bedroom half hoping that he would find her still in his bed. Instead, he found the floor tidied of their strewn clothes and the coverlet neatly in place. He felt the urge to mess it up again, to prove that they had been there together. He rummaged through his wardrobe, looking for something suitable to wear, silently thanking Catherine for her various obligatory holiday presents. He crossed to his dresser and picked up his watch from the tray where she had laid it, the metal links grounding him in time. His mobile, on the other hand, carried a different weight, pulling at him, dragging him down. Obligation, duty, responsibility. He turned it on, a chill running through him as he remembered the time he had let everything go to voice mail, and Francis Debham had ended his life in a haze of car exhaust. He looked at himself in the mirror. How many deaths lay at his feet? He was tired of it. Let someone else stop the gap. He wanted out. He wanted to wake up in the morning with her, to worry that he did not have a proper suit to wear instead of scrounging for scraps of casual clothes, to take a shower and feel clean. He rubbed his forehead, fingers threading through his thinning hair. It needed to be cut, but he didn't care.

The curtains billowed, catching his eye and walked over the window. A cool breeze blew in, the heat having finally abated and he let it wash over him, debating whether to toss the phone out to the pavement below. He closed the casement, abruptly halting the dance of the curtains. As he fastened the latch, he felt a sharp sting in the bottom of his foot. He bent down and found a lone cufflink, embedded in the fibre of the carpet. How long had that been there? He returned to the dresser, flipping open the lid of the leather watch box that sat on the tray, depositing the cufflink inside to lay with the other paraphernalia. His fingers brushed over the mementos, stopping when they came to a smooth gold band. He had not looked at it in years. What sentiment had driven him to keep it? Perhaps he had not completely given up on the idea of marriage. He held it up to the light, examining it, cold metal nothing more. He closed his hands around it, feeling the imprint of the circle in his palm. The image of Ruth in the kitchenette flickered before him, how he had slipped a ring on her finger. He had dared in that moment to entertain the possibility; would he ever dare again? Rings meant nothing. They were more than that. He put the ring back, closing the box resolutely.

He finished dressing and bounded down the stairs, possessed of an energy he had not felt in years.

He stopped short when he saw her standing in his kitchen. Secretly, he had harboured the fantasy that she would be standing in one of his shirts, the length of her leg on view below it but she stood fully clothed in her dress from the night before. Barefoot, mussed hair, a cup of tea in one hand, a piece of toast in the other, her face looking for all the world like a little girl with her hand in the cookie jar.

"Hope you don't mind," she said through a mouthful of toast. "I haven't eaten since yesterday morning."

He sauntered towards her with measured steps, confident she could not flee from the confines of his kitchen. "Why not?"

"Nerves, I suppose."

The thought that she had been nervous about their date was balm to his battered ego. He motioned to the toast.

"There's a price to be paid for everything."

"If you're going to deduct it from my salary, you won't get much."

"You should tell your boss your worth more."

Standing in front of her, he placed a hand on either side, trapping her against the counter. A fleeting look of panic crossed her face and he released one hand, allowing her a breath of space.

"Are you alright?"

"My hands are full," she explained, deflecting his question.

She set down her mug along with the remnants of the toast and turned back to him. He looked at her curiously, not quite convinced of her explanation. She licked a few crumbs from her fingertips and smiled, her demeanor relaxing as she laid a hand on his shirt, just above his heart.

"This is nice." Her fingers brushed across the fabric. "Chambray."

"I thought it was denim."

"It is but not quite."

His hand came up to rest on her hip. "This is my favourite dress."

"How do you know? You haven't seen all my dresses."

"I'd like to see all your dresses."

She slid her hand over his shoulder, fingers moving to caress the back of his neck, finding the beginnings of a curl and lightly toying with it. A frisson of longing snaked down his spine. See, there was an excellent reason not to cut his hair. He let his finger wander up to the scoop of her neckline, following the path they had taken the previous evening.

"I'd like to see you out of all your dresses too."

She lowered her eyes demurely and smiled, cheeks flushing pink. The fact that his words could still embarrass her after all they had done together made him cherish her even more. Words of endearment floated around in his head, not quite making the journey to his tongue, the last brick of self-preservation holding him back. He kissed her temple instead.

"You can take a shower here if you like."

"I'd rather go to mine. Change of clothes, toothbrush and all that."

He moved his lips down to her mouth. "You taste fine to me, of toast and tea."

"You smell all fresh and clean," she murmured against his cheek.

He wasn't clean. He knew that. He stepped away from her.

"Is that all you're having? Toast?"

"I didn't want to impose."

"I have bacon and eggs." He opened the fridge taking out the food to illustrate his point.

"Shall I make it?"

"No, no. I can cook for myself you know." He fished a frying pan from the cupboard and set in on the stove. "In fact, I will cook for you."

"You don't have to bother-"

"I want to." He paused in his preparations, his eyes finding hers. "I want to look after you."

Her mouth opened as if to dispute the idea that she needed to be taken care of, but she quickly closed it, tilting her head as she concluded that a little care would not mean the abdication of her self-reliance. She leaned against the counter, motioning for him to continue.

"Do you eat this every morning?"

He gave out a huff. "I barely have time for a coffee. That's why I treat myself on the weekend." He separated the strips of bacon and laid them neatly in the pan. "Maybe a bit of sausage, bread, the full fry up."

"Is that what you do? Deny your appetite and then devour everything in one sitting?"

His stopped, an egg in one hand, poised at the edge of the frying pan. One piece of information and she had found a crack, her fingers peeling away his entire shell. Is that what he had done? Denied himself the pleasure of her for so long that in his delight he would burn through it in a day. He did not look at her but continued with his motions, splitting the egg on the lip of the frying pan.

"How do you like your eggs?"

"I haven't had bacon and eggs since-"

She took a deep breath and he held his in anticipation, worried that he had once again inadvertently opened the door to a memory of Cyprus. To his relief, she gave a small smile.

"Since I went away."

The smile on her face grew and he dared to hope that she had come back to him. The corners of his mouth lifted in response, the muscles of his smile lax from lack of use. Words fell away, unnecessary as they stood in his kitchen, the crackle of bacon sizzling in the background. Raising his hand to her face, he gently rubbed his knuckle along the plane of her cheekbone. Her eyes were a blue he had never seen before and he wondered if any other man had seen that particular hue. He wanted that day to last forever, to have an eternity of days with her. He would do everything he could to keep her by his side.