She's afraid to move, afraid to break the reverie—it's just perfect. At that moment, life is utterly perfect. If someone were to look in on the tableau they've created on the too-small bed in her too-small bedroom they might disagree. They're an odd pair, both paler and thinner than is probably best—but these days in the aftermath of so much sadness and darkness and death there isn't anyone with color and happiness to spare. She's nestled in the crook of his arm, it looks awkward, but they fit, a tangled mess of too-big sweaters and knobbly knees and cold feet.
His hand is resting gently over her hip, gently tracing the patterns of her skirt (familiar, even in the dark) and she aches to take it in her own; to hold it. But she's sure that even the tiniest of movements will spoil the sweetness of the scene. She contents herself to watching him closely, cheek resting lightly against his shoulder. She knows it bothers him, being watched like this, and she can see him resisting the urge to shift uncomfortably—for the same reason she can't slip her hand into his like she would normally.
The silence that blankets the room seems too heavy, and she knows immediately she must say something. Something romantic and perfect and wonderful that they'll both remember in years to come, but the words trip on her tongue. "Theodore?" His full name, only used for special occasions. There's a soft (patient) noncommittal sound from beside her, but she knows he's listening.
"I. . ." A pause, she tries to gather her thoughts. 'I' what? There aren't words to describe what she's feeling. Perhaps peaceful. For the first time in so long past battles can be set aside, the struggles of rebuilding can be forgotten, and thoughts of what may lie ahead twinkle bewitchingly just outside of reach.
"Yes. I know." He says quietly from the side; and it's as if a great weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She lets out a long, relieved breath and shifts to nestle closer still, reverently taking in the softness of his jumper against her cheek and the feel of his palm against her hip. Quiet settles again, and the moment stretches on unspoiled.
