He rises from the cot as she descends the stairs, and she suppresses a smile. Victorian manners die hard, even in him.
Maybe especially in him.
He says nothing, makes no move toward her. She knows why: Next move is hers, and he's simply waiting to see what she'll do. Waiting for her like he always has.
Waiting for her to make up her mind.
She's kinda still waiting for that, too.
Deep inside her she can feel her desire for him - still there, always there, an eternal wellspring of yearning - and knows how little it would take to bring it surging to the surface, crackling along every nerve, waiting for just the right touch (his) to set it off. With a little effort she keeps it down there, where it belongs. It's not very hard, because it's not time for that yet.
No. It really isn't. Even if they have no more time than this very night, it still isn't time for that. Not yet.
Maybe someday, she'd tried to tell him but a few days ago. He'd stopped her - saved her, perhaps, from herself, from mouthing promising platitudes that he wants no part of and never did, not he. He always wants it real and true even if it's painful beyond bearing. And the real and true of what they are to each other now is not that, can't be that. Simply can not. Not yet.
But still she can't help thinking: Maybe when this is all over, we'll have time. Or - not. Maybe we'll try again and it still won't work...or maybe it'll be wonderful beyond our wildest imaginings. It could happen... I hope it does... because we're doing this the right way now, the way we should have but couldn't. Neither of us could, not then. And so, not now.
He remains silent, his expression serene, but there's a smile in his eyes, as if he knows what she's thinking. He probably does.
She moves a little closer and opens her mouth, then shuts it and smiles faintly. What is there to say? So many things, more than she has time to honor as she should. Better to say nothing than the wrong thing, or start something she cannot finish. Words aren't her thing anyway. Action suits her better.
She goes to him, stands before him looking up into his face. Slowly, she slides her hands around his slim waist and stops at the small of his back, then gently pulls herself closer until she's nestled against his chest. Ah. This is what she wants, this night. She releases a warm little sigh and snuggles closer. He makes a small sound deep in his throat and shivers, once, before his arms close around her. She feels his cheek meet the top of her head, moving tenderly back and forth over her hair, and smiles into soft black cotton.
For a first real hug, it's definitely a winner.
Later - she's not sure exactly how much - they're spooned on the cot, comfortable and familiar, with his strong forearm cuddled sweetly between her breasts and their fingers laced together under her chin.
She sighs and falls asleep wishing on Maybe, content in her regret.