Maker knew there were days (gone nights gone grey tinged washes of light that spilled down Bethany's skin like water, lapping down her every slope and peaked angle in succession, in a rippling tide that carried with it the detritus of time shared and time grown— a length of cotton knotted still around Garret's wrist, discarded clothes that came unfurled beneath her turns, questing fingers that sought and found those parts of her still limmed in shadow, in textured silences that broke on a shivery sigh that started an avalanche, a gradual fall that tossed the light into the air to be lost, to be found and spread and caught up in Garret's smile, in the hiccuping gasp of a laugh that brightened the room still more) where they could hardly keep their hands off each other, but there were others spent just like this, curled an arm's length apart in the cooling impressions left of the other's body, smiles tucked into the curve of an elbow, into crinkled eyes and in the soft, lingering curve of fingers around fingers, like a kiss. Like a promise.