Her breath paused in the unexpected heave of her chest and she tried to turn her face into her pillow. She expected him to stop her, to hold her in place and tell her not to be afraid, not to hide from him. But Peter was off her in a moment and she was free to roll over and turn her back to him, curling her arms and legs up to her chest. She turned her face into the shadow of her shoulder and let her face contort in all the ways she didn't want him to see, her lips pulled back and her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth wide and biting at the mattress. There were surprisingly few tears, and she felt not at all sad. What she felt was between, like she'd felt when he'd walked her to her door. Between herself and the world. Between her body and his. Between wanting and believing. Her body voiced its shock in the rolling waves of exhausting over-sensitivity, in the face of which she could only wait and let go.

He let her be overwhelmed in private, and for that she was grateful. She heard her bedroom door open as he left, and then heard a deliberately loud opening and closing of her bathroom door. He was there, and he would be there as she took her moments.

Olivia let her breath return as loud as it needed to, and didn't try to muffle the sound. It didn't take long, just a minute or two and she was coming back together. She kept her head firmly and safely against her pillow as she let her eyes relax into the room. It was warm from their bodies, warm from the lamp, warm from her feelings toward the man in her bathroom. The windows stretched elegantly into the ceiling, portals to the frozen stars. The contrast between the cold outside and the warmth inside made her cozy and soothed her raw feelings. She let her legs stretch and slide into the cool parts of the sheets, the muscles different, loose and tight at the same time.

Peter looked at himself in her bathroom mirror. He was red and overheated. And naked. He looked thinner than he remembered himself, but he felt stronger. His muscles were threaded with the memories of capability, once used only for selfish, violent defense, and now - he hoped - for something better. He wanted to give her his best, always, and his best could be very, very good. He raised his chin, dropped his shoulders and tried to see himself as she saw him. As he wanted her to see him. He wondered if she saw his mind behind his eyes, or his strength behind his obeisance. He didn't know if his face communicated the way he was mentally eradicating the variables from her safety, or if his posture belied how prepared he was to step in front of her if need be. He rubbed a hand over his chest; it was shining with sweat. Theirs. A smile broke on his face, and he couldn't stop it and didn't try. He reached into her shower and turned on the water.

Olivia heard the shower start and knew that her solitude would last for at least another few minutes. She turned back her comforter and walked to one of the tall, serene windows in her wall. The wood floors creaked under her feet. Moon and streetlight hit her front while the lamp caught her back and she was cradled in light, blue to yellow, and she looked like a luxury car with every curve illuminated. She looked out at the city and up at the sky and was satisfied with the dark and sparkling world.

Peter stood under the water, letting the soap rinse away and thinking that next he would dress, go home, have a drink. And then he stopped, actually turned around in the shower to process without the water thundering in his ears, because this wasn't a woman from the bar and his usuals were not applicable. He stared at the tiles, thinking. She might want him to stay. She might not. And then there was tomorrow, and the next day. There was always the chance that she'd Olivia her way out of it with a nod of her head and a weird expression and a simple refusal to discuss it. But that wouldn't happen. Peter turned the water hotter and let it sting him. That won't happen. Because there was also what he wanted, and he wanted to stay, and by God he was tenacious. As far as she could Olivia her way out of it, he could Peter his way back in. He could outlast her anxieties, her fears, her doubts. He would be there in the morning.

John is in the shower, Olivia thought. The thought occurred to her out of nothing, coming in through the window from the city, bringing with it a wave of melancholy. It felt plausible enough. John was in the shower, like he had been before. She couldn't tell what was more responsible for her sudden and unexpected sadness: that John might be in her shower, or that he was not and would never be again. If the water shut off and his face appeared in her door, what would she do? How would she feel? I don't know, she thought, but the truth was that she didn't want to know, because it might be ugly for her, especially now. She pressed her forehead to the window. The cold felt good. She watched her breath fog the glass, distracting herself with the crystals that appeared and were gone. And the answer came to her like the question, on her evaporating breath: if John were at her door, she'd love him. She'd love him, like she'd always love him, and she'd call for Peter.

Olivia heard the bathroom door open again, Peter's quiet footsteps, the soft knock on her bedroom door and him moving through it. She turned and there he was, hips wrapped in an old, thin towel. He stood there, watching her. He was almost smiling. He was beautiful. Olivia didn't quite know what to do with him, so she just waited.

"Your turn?" he said finally. She ducked her head, bashful, and said, "okay," as she slipped past him into the hall. Peter smiled then. 'Livia.

In the shower, she clutched her hands over her chest and, no-one watching, laughed and laughed and laughed.

Afterward, she looked for things to do in the bathroom because she didn't know what she would do in her bedroom. He would be there, and she would be embarrassingly awkward. John had made it easy for her-always gregarious, always initiating, always taking the lead. Even Lucas had helped her, in his way; he was entertaining, and when he wasn't his mistreatments gave her something from which to react. These men had guided her, given her a topiary frame for her personality and made her feel adept. But Peter was quiet and Peter was observant and Peter would wait and see who she really was. She wasn't sure who he would find.

Hair combed, deodorant applied, Olivia ran out of options. She stepped out of the bathroom into a shockingly cold hallway. Peter had turned off the bedroom light; shower steam condensed around her and for a moment she was in the cloudy night sky itself.

"Peter?" she called into her dark room. She stepped inside cautiously and didn't see him anywhere. Maybe he'd gone.

But he hadn't.

"Down here," he said softly, and she saw the top of his head over the edge of her mattress.

Her comforter was on the floor with him, made into a nest that wrapped around him from shoulders to feet. He'd opened the window in front of him, frigid air drifting in with the clarity of winter. When she rounded the corner of her bed, he opened his arm to her like a wing, blanket draped. She hesitated and he scoffed.

"Will you hurry up?"

She dropped her towel and scuttled into the nook he'd created. He folded her inside, closing his arm and its wall of warm goosedown firmly around her. Her shower-warmth (and his) kept them toasty and pink as the cold poured over their faces. A spiciness was carried in with the cold, smelling like bread and smoke and reminding Olivia of their night rides. She snuggled closer to him, not restrained by any seat belt, and when her arms and breasts touched his bare sides she remembered that they were both naked, that they had just... She let her head rest against his. She felt the heat of his cheek without touching. His heartbeat echoed between their ears. She could see the stars. From the floor, they seemed a longer way up.

Their breath iced in the air. They were so distant from Boston even though they could see the buildings, concrete in the distance. Neither of them spoke.

Distant traffic hummed. Trees hushed in the wind.

Peter matched his breaths to Olivia's. It relaxed her. Even in the car it had relaxed her to hear him breathe in time with her. If he got it right he could lead her: deeper, longer, fuller.

He wanted to touch her face but the blanket kept a warm seal around them and he didn't want to break it. He turned his head slightly, gently nuzzling his forehead against her warm, wet hair. She turned into it, his cold nose touching her cheek. He sighed a low, contented sound and kissed her firmly on the temple.

"'Livia," he whispered. Her eyes locked on the sky, focused into space, but she smiled a little and tugged gently on his arm where hers entwined. She was listening. "Ready for bed?" He leaned down to catch even the faintest response, and she looked at him with eyes as expansive as Andromeda. For a moment they hovered, faces barely separate, his fierce, quiet love burning up her insecurities like flash paper.

She nodded.