A late-spring storm. One room at the inn. Floorboards that let drafts sift through them as much as easily as they creaked underfoot. Her incessant stubbornness. Or the pout of her bottom lip, if he were being honest.
The fire dwindled and he thought of adding another log, but that would involve crawling out from under their pile of blankets. Instead he pulled them higher over his shoulders. She murmured when he shifted and he turned his head. All he could see of her were her curls tumbling out from underneath a worn, wool blanket and the tips of her fingers.
He settled in, exhaling softly. His hand came to rest in a mirror-image of hers. In the fading glow of the fire he could see how little distance separated them, despite his best efforts. All he had to do was close the gap—he reached for her hand but caught himself with a sigh.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply and willing sleep to take him. It nearly had when he felt her hand cover his own.