A/N: Yes! I'm back, and very pleased to start getting all these weeks of pent-up story out of my head and onto the page. So, it looks like it's going to take me a bit longer than I had hoped to finish this saga of mine, but we'll get there in the end, I promise. A big hello to my faithful readers and reviewers, and my sincere thanks for your patience while I was sidelined. Right, on with the show, where we are up to episode 5.3.

Exhausted after my first day back in Section D, I oversleep, and no-one comes to wake me; finally, the insistent trilling of my mobile phone drags me out of a dreamless slumber that feels fathoms deep. "Malcolm? Are you OK?" Jo asks, before rushing on, "It's just that you've missed the morning briefing, and you're never late." Groaning, I squint at the phone's screen: ten-fifteen a.m. "I'll be in directly, Jo. Thanks for the call." She adds quickly, "I've got some news, too; you'll never guess…" but I'm already flipping the phone shut, hauling myself upright and heading for the bathroom. Twelve minutes later, I'm rushing out the door. The house feels oddly quiet, as I dash down the stairs and head for the garage, and I wonder where everyone is as I warm up the Rover's engine. I haven't seen Mother, or Aunt Em, or even the odious Gerald; perhaps they've gone to yet another of Mother's many medical appointments. The Rover's engine note swiftly settles into its usual throaty purr, and I put her into gear and set out. Checking my watch, I see that the date is the fourteenth of July, and in honour of Bastille Day, I find myself humming the Marseillaise all the way into Thames House. In spite of being very, very late, I feel surprisingly buoyant; the little yellow pills must be working properly at last.

Jo meets me as I walk through the pods, her big blue eyes shining with suppressed excitement; her mood seems oddly unnecessary for the conversation we are having as we walk towards my workstation. "Morning, Jo, and thank you again for saving my bacon," I greet her, smiling, and she beams back as she hands me a brown paper bag. "Speaking of bacon, I'm guessing you haven't eaten yet," she replies, and I peer inside the bag to see a bacon and egg roll, smelling like heaven and still piping hot. "Coffee's on your desk," she continues, and I look at her worshipfully. "You're an angel," I tell her, and she rolls her eyes. "Please. Once you've eaten, Ros needs you to kit out Leigh Bennett." My mouth full of food, I raise my eyebrows enquiringly. Jo explains, "Ros wants to use her to try and turn Michael Johnson; she needs to be wired for sound. I brought that greenish parka back, it should fit her, and today's not exactly warm, so it won't look odd if she wears it." I nod, turning to my array and beginning to log on. "Fine, I'll get onto it," I say, sipping my coffee, "just as soon as I'm ready." A puzzled look crosses her face, and she ventures hesitantly, "Malcolm, are you sure you're alright?" Smiling, I assure her that I am, but she doesn't seem convinced. "It's just…there's something a bit, um, different about you today," she muses, choosing her words with care. "Such as?" I enquire, and she frowns. "I don't know, just…different. Not your usual self." The excited gleam in her eyes returns as she recalls that she as going to tell me something; just as she is about to launch into her news, a cold voice drawls, "Oh, look. It's Beauty and the Geek. Jo, when you've finished feeding your pet nerd, do you think you could possibly tear yourself away long enough to join me while I tell the Bennett female what England is going to expect of her today?" Jo, her back to the other woman, makes a hideous face as she pushes herself off the edge of my desk. "Sorry, I'd better go."

I follow Jo as soon as I've finished my breakfast, and the strange, woozy feeling that has been coming over me lately has dissipated somewhat; lack of food, most probably, I tell myself, and go to the tech storage cage on my way to the briefing room. As I enter, I grab the doorframe, fighting off sudden dizziness again; Miss Meyers doesn't even look at me until I speak. "Erm, Jo said…" and I hold up the parka, by way of explanation. Our new senior field officer regards me unblinkingly, but Miss Bennett says, "'Ere, you OK, mate? You've gone a funny colour." I assure her that I'm fine, and sit down hastily. "This is Malcolm. He's going to kit you out so we can hear what's going on when you talk to Michael," Miss Meyers explains. Staring in disdain at the garment I'm holding, Miss Bennett exclaims, "I ain't wearing that thing! 'Ow do I know where it's been?" I tell her that it's what our female field officers wear, that it's perfectly clean, and go on to point out its unique benefits. "There's a listening device stitched into the collar, we'll be able to hear you at all times." The women ignore me and keep talking, but I'm not paying much attention myself, as I'm feeling funny again. Eventually, Miss Bennett reluctantly shrugs on the parka. "Just hold still a second," I instruct, as I check the pickup and feeds from the jacket. Miss Bennett, meanwhile, continues her train of thought. "I don't know what to say, I'll be too nervous, sometimes I blush." Miss Meyers counters with, "Good, he'll think you're nervous at seeing him again."

The room unexpectedly goes in and out of focus, and I recall a bit of Milton: Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue… It is not until I wonder why Miss Meyers is glaring at me that I realise I have said it out loud, and clumsily, I attempt to explain. "It's Paradise Lost. 'Milton! Thou should'st be living at this hour.'" I end my explanation with a diffident sniff; she shuts me up with a sarcastic, "All right, thanks for sharing that, Malcolm." Blushing with embarrassment, I focus on my work again, making tiny adjustments to the jacket's microphone until I am satisfied. "Right, you're ready, young lady," I pronounce a few moments later; Miss Bennett asks, "Am I?", still looking unconvinced as Miss Meyers feeds her the standard line about how she is helping to save innocent people's lives, the usual stuff we tell civilians who are unfortunate enough to become involved with our operations. It's incredible how many of them swallow it, and act against their own instincts to do our bidding; but there's something about this girl that worries me, a certain expression of defiance in her eyes, or perhaps the way she challenges Miss Meyers even as they leave the room. "So, what's in it for me an' Michael, supposing I do get 'im to listen to me? What're you going to give us?" Ah, Miss Bennett, ask not what your country can do for you… Alone in the room, I put my head down on the table, and wait for the world to stop spinning, before I make my way unsteadily to my makeshift refuge amongst the stacks, and the servers still tagged with Colin's purple scrawl.

Jo finds me there, some time later, poring over the blueprints for the Royal Heights hotel in the West End, preparatory to bugging the suite of a South African by the name of Iain Kallis, as Adam has asked me to do; the man, for want of a better word, is a large-scale arms dealer, and Adam believes he might be able to help us secure the thermobaric bomb, given a big enough incentive. From the file we have on him, I've determined that he is an utterly reprehensible creature, a sociopath whose only interest is his own personal enrichment. There have been complaints about his behaviour from other guests at the prestigious hotels he frequents, and he is on the black-list of at least two airlines for his violent sexual advances towards female cabin crew when inebriated. Adam is planning to pose as a potential client, with Jo as his assistant. I don't like the idea of Jo being around Kallis; he has a disturbing pattern of violence towards women, and slender, blonde, blue-eyed Jo is just his type. I hope Adam has the sense to never leave her alone with him. "Malcolm?" she begins, leaning against the doorframe as she watches me work, "there's something you should know." Hearing the note of suppressed excitement and uncertainty in her voice, I turn around, and she says, "Harry's taking Ruth to dinner tonight: it's their first date." She regards me with concern, but I merely shrug, "Where did you hear that?" I suppose I should be devastated, but in fact, I feel rather as if I'm in a very warm room on a hot day, torpid and unable to muster up enough energy to care about anything at all. Jo replies, still watching me closely, "Let's just say Harry's driver likes a chat."

That's not all he likes, I rejoin silently, for I've seen how Harry's driver steals glances at Jo whenever he comes onto the Grid to collect his passenger. "I think you underestimate yourself," I tell her, and she stares at me, confused. "Aren't you upset? I mean, you and Ruth, and now her and Harry…" I begin gathering things together, preparatory to leaving the room, but Jo bars the way with a long arm. "Malcolm, please look me in the eye and tell me how you really feel about this. Why aren't you hyperventilating at the idea of the two of them being… together?" I do as she asks, meeting her candid gaze without flinching as I reply, "Like Rhett Butler in that dreadful melodrama of a motion picture, frankly, I don't give a damn, Jo. I've had enough of it, Ruth, Harry, whatever's going on between them: I wash my hands of it, and them. And now I have to get on with bugging this wretch Kallis' suite; so you'll have to excuse me, please." Jo steps aside, and I feel her watching me all the way down the corridor; I can practically hear her worrying about me. She needn't bother, because I feel perfectly fine, and I continue to feel perfectly fine, if a little off-kilter when it comes to the finer points of balancing on a ladder, affixing a bug to an overdone chandelier.

Colin and I could have done the whole suite in minutes, but I'm finding it slow going on my own; the room sometimes tips slightly on its horizontal axis, which doesn't help, and I clutch the rungs of the ladder as I carefully make my way down, concerned by its strange side-to-side swaying. I can't linger though; via my earpiece, Adam is already warning me that Kallis is on his way back, and to get the hell out now. I do a final sweep of the room to make sure I've left nothing behind, and leave the room, pushing a housekeeping cart before me, my ladder folded up and tucked under a pile of dirty linen. The things I do in this job… I trundle the cart into the service lift just as Kallis stalks past, alone, his angular features animated angrily as he shouts into his mobile phone in harsh-sounding Afrikaans. The doors slide shut and I lean against the cool steel walls, eyes closed against the rising nausea I feel as the lift lurches down to the lower ground floor. Ooh, no more egg and bacon rolls, I vow, and stagger back to the surveillance van after abandoning the linen cart in the darkest corner I can find, before clambering into the van parked strategically behind the hotel. As I do, I notice that there is a PCN stuck to the windshield, and muttering under my breath about over-zealous parking officers, I climb back out and read it: apparently, I have been parked in a loading zone for more than 20 minutes without evidence of loading or unloading taking place. One of the admin officers will make the parking ticket go away, of course, but I feel annoyed that it's taken me so long to do such a routine task. This day is turning out to be full of unpleasant surprises, I observe cynically: Paradise lost, indeed.

The surprises aren't yet over, for when I return home, the house is in darkness, with not a soul to be found. Walking into the kitchen, I spot what seems to be a note addressed to me, propped against the fruit bowl in the middle of the scrubbed oak table. Opening it, I see that it is in my aunt's handwriting. Dear Malcolm, don't worry, it begins: instantly, my chest feels tight. I read on quickly, but your mother feels that she would do better under the care of a specialist, and her nurses agree. She was admitted this morning to the private clinic that her treating psychiatrist consults at, off Harley Street. I have given all the staff the week off (I hope you don't mind that I said it would be a paid holiday, considering the short notice) and I'm off home for a rest myself. Do call me if you need anything, but I thought you might like a bit of peace and quiet – it's been a trying few weeks, to say the least. All my love, Aunt Em.

P.S. Supper is in the fridge – please try to remember to eat at least once a day, Malcolm!

I open the fridge door, and gaze in amazement upon at least a week's worth of home-made meals, thanks to Mrs Murchison and my darling aunt, all neatly packed in foil containers, with instructions for reheating written on the lids. Rummaging through them, I select a portion of shepherd's pie and my eye falls on an inviting row of brown bottles lining the top shelf of the refrigerator. Pulling one out, I turn it round; a green and black label proclaims the contents to be Brains Original Bitter. My aunt, bless her heart, has gone to the trouble of finding Welsh beer here in London, and I am so moved by her kindness that I ring her as I'm heating up the shepherd's pie. "Aunt Emily? It's just me, Malcolm. I found your note, and I wanted to thank you for, for everything, really. For taking such good care of me, and Mother." She chuckles, "Fy nai, tell me what else family is for, if not to help each other along? You've been carrying Amelia on your own ever since your father passed away, God rest his soul, and she's more than enough for one person to cope with. She might finally get the help she needs, and the attention she craves, now that she's gotten herself into that clinic."

Swallowing a mouthful of crisp, cool beer, I ask, "Ah, yes, about that. Why the snap decision?" My aunt sighs, "Your mother woke up early this morning and became very distressed when the nurse took longer to answer her call than usual. The poor girl had just gone to the loo, but your mother panicked and rang for Gerald… he wasn't very happy at being woken up, let me tell you." I hoist myself onto the countertop, and she continues, "Anyway, it became very clear to everyone that Amelia wasn't managing as well as could be hoped, and that's when she said she wanted to go to that clinic. I know I should have consulted with you, but I didn't have the heart to wake you, not when you'd just started back at work and had come in so late…was I wrong not to?" I think about it for a moment, but rapidly conclude that whether I had been consulted or not, the end result would have been the same. "No, I understand. Once Mother's got the bit between her teeth…" "Oh, good, that's exactly what I thought, too. Have you eaten yet?"

I hop off the counter to open the Aga's door, and the rich smell of meat, mashed potato and melted cheese wafts out; the shepherd's pie is bubbling away happily. "Not yet, but it's in the oven. You're so good to me; I don't know how to thank you." My aunt makes a dismissive noise. "Please. You're too thin as it is. Now, I'm going to let you eat your supper in peace, but please do take care of yourself, love." She rings off before I can say anything further other than a hasty goodbye, and smiling to myself I flip my phone shut, loosen my collar and tie, carefully lift my piping hot meal out of the Aga and carry it through to the drawing room on a tray, taking another bottle of bitter out of the fridge as I go. The little brown bottle of pills is on the edge of the tray, and I take two with my meal before toeing off my shoes and stretching out on the Chesterfield, comfortably full of hot food and cold beer; an almost unfamiliar sense of well-being radiates out from my stomach as I look up at the intricate ceiling and try not to think of Harry and Ruth, out together in some restaurant somewhere. French, probably, given the date, and Harry's rather clichéd approach to seduction. "Wine 'em, dine 'em, get their knickers off in the cab and shag 'em silly as soon as you're in the door of whatever hotel room you've had the good sense to take 'em to. Never go back to hers or yours; even if you're boffing a colleague, keep your private life out of it. Follow this advice, and you too might be a spy one day." I've heard him give this particular little speech more times than I can count to Section D's male recruits: God only knows what he tells the women.

Just as I'm contemplating getting up for another bottle of Brains, I hear the crackling of the intercom announcing that someone is at the front gate, and I grope for my mobile phone, patching the signal through with the push of a button – it's yet another of Colin's clever refinements, and I am seized with melancholy at the remembrance. No doubt that's why my voice sounds slightly unsteady as I say, "Yes?" And from the handset pours a voice like warm honey, rich and sweet and kind. "Malcolm, it's Sally Chapman. I know it's late for a visit, but would you please let me in?" I sit bolt upright in confusion, looking wildly around the room before stammering, "D…D…Doctor Chapman… wh… why are you here?" The mellifluous voice answers, "House call. Some of us still do them, would you believe? Now, are you going to open the gate, or am I going to have to scale this very high wall while wearing a dress?" I push another button on my handset, and a minute later I hear the crunch of tyres over gravel, followed by a steady knock at the door. I think about putting my shoes back on and doing up my collar and tie, but it seems strange; surely she isn't expecting to find me sitting about at home at ten o'clock at night in a three-piece suit, contrary to whatever rumours get bandied about in Thames House. Besides, I'm curious to know what could possibly bring the CMO out to see me at this time of night, and following this train of thought, I pad along the hall in my stockinged feet and open the front door, after verifying that it is, indeed, Doctor Chapman by glancing at the CCTV monitor for the portico cameras first.

Doctor Sally Chapman smiles at me as I gesture for her to come in: as the night is cool for July, she is wearing a lightweight navy mac, belted at the waist, and as she precedes me along the hall, I am acutely aware that under the coat there is a statuesque figure and a truly spectacular pair of legs, lightly tanned from wherever it is that doctors go for their summer hols. When she reaches the newel post of the staircase, she stops to take off her coat and drape it over the bannister; shyly, I hasten forward to assist her. She wears no perfume; the clean scent of soap and the faint, but sharp smell of hospital-strength disinfectant are all I detect as she turns away from me, smoothing down the thick, red-gold mass of her hair. She is wearing, as advertised, a dress, cut long and straight, made of some sleek looking material – satin, perhaps – in dark blue, with an Oriental print of pink and white orchids tumbling from one shoulder, and it fits her like a glove. She truly looks like an old-fashioned movie star, with red lips and softly waved hair and curves in all the right places, tall and elegant whereas Ruth was short… and… short. I must be staring at her, for she gives a little cough and says, "I was out for dinner with friends, earlier. I don't normally dress like this for a house call." I blink apologetically, but no words will come; after a moment, she gestures towards the drawing room. "Perhaps we should sit down…" Finally, I get my voice back, and blushing furiously, I offer her a seat on one of the Chesterfields. "I'm sorry, I seem to have interrupted your supper," she says, noticing the now-empty tray on the floor, and I snatch it up to carry it into the kitchen. "No, no, it's quite all right, I'd just finished. May I offer you anything at all? Tea, or coffee, perhaps?" She smiles, "I wouldn't say no to a beer, if you're having another?" and somewhat to my astonishment, I find myself opening another two bottles, before hunting round for the appropriate glasses. Before I can find them, she appears behind me and takes one of the bottles. "This is fine; we doctors don't stand on ceremony, you know." She chinks her bottle cheerily against mine, and says, "Let's make ourselves comfortable, and then we can have a talk."

Nervously, I follow her back into the drawing room; she sits opposite me, and pointing at my shoeless feet, says, "Good idea, these heels are killing me," as she slips them off with a sigh of relief, before stretching out her legs towards me, and resting one ankle on top of the other. Her toenails are painted a blue so dark it gleams purple. Slowly, I raise my eyes to meet hers, and find that they're almost the same colour as she regards me steadily. "How are you, Malcolm?" she says, in that neutral tone so beloved of the medical profession. "Erm, to be perfectly honest, a little perplexed as to why you're here." She sets her half-empty bottle down, and nods, "Fair enough. Let's just say people are worried about you. Apparently you missed meetings today because you'd overslept, and when you did get to work, you were observed several times to be on the verge of fainting. You rambled about Milton while outfitting an asset for the field, and took more than twice as long to complete a routine surveillance task at the Royal Heights hotel, incurring a parking ticket as a result. I'm here to assess whether you should be on active duty, or not."

I stare at her incredulously; who is telling tales out of school? Adam wouldn't, of that I'm sure, and nor would Jo. I can't imagine that Harry would be all that interested in the minutia of my day, and the only other possibility is that Section X, the officers tasked with watching the watchers and reporting on any and all irregularities, have been taking an especial interest in me. That's not completely unrealistic, given recent events. Just as I am settling on this explanation in the absence of any other, I recall something else: Ms Meyers' coldly sarcastic voice as she said, "Thanks for sharing that, Malcolm," after my impromptu Milton recital, and the look of pure contempt and dislike she had shot at me as she spoke. Like the pattern falling into place as the tiny bits of glass settle inside the kaleidoscope, it all fits together: Ros Meyers must truly hate me, and that can mean only one thing: she knows that my mother was involved with her father. I feel ill at the thought, but there can be no other reason for such a malicious and petty attack; fortunately, she has underestimated our CMO.

"I see. Well, it's all true, but I can explain… I think the pills you prescribed might not agree with me. I've been feeling a bit dizzy since I started taking them, and I've been finding it hard to wake up in the mornings…" She frowns, and leaning forward, opens her hand to reveal the little brown vial of pills; uncapping them, she pours them into her palm and counts them. "Well, that's no wonder, if you've doubled the dose, which I surmise you have." Embarrassed, I nod. "Just because one is good, doesn't mean more is better. Or were you hoping not to feel anything at all?" I gaze fixedly at the bit of Persian carpet between my feet, and Doctor Chapman sighs. "Right. Roll up your sleeve, please." Startled, I look up to see that she has produced a blood pressure cuff from what I had thought was an oversized handbag, parked on the sofa next to her. Obediently, I comply, and for the next few minutes she makes a very thorough examination indeed: blood pressure, pulse, a fingerprick test to check blood sugar, auscultation of my heart and lungs, questions about how much of my asthma medication I have been using, my sleeping and eating patterns, and much more. When she sits back, the frown has deepened. "Malcolm, without putting too fine a point on it, you're possibly the most intelligent man in the Service, and yet you don't seem able to take care of yourself. What do you weigh at the moment?" Nonplussed, I merely look at her silently, and she rolls her eyes. "Take off your shirt and vest." Blinking, I stammer, "I b…beg your pardon?" but she simply repeats the instruction.

When I have done as she has asked, she stands up and circles slowly around me; gooseflesh rises as she passes behind me, hmmming as she goes; I hold my breath, afraid that she will hear the rapid pounding of my heart. Facing me once more, her eyes are almost level with mine, and some small part of my brain registers that she is taller than I had thought, out of her shoes. "You're far too thin," she informs me, "Your ribs are beginning to show, your shirt collar is too big, your belt's on the last hole and yet your trousers are still two inches too loose in the waist. I'd say you've lost at least five kilos in the last few weeks; your metabolism must be all over the place. Ordinarily, I wouldn't worry too much – it's common enough in someone who's grieving, but when this type of antidepressants is prescribed, the patient has to eat regularly. Your blood sugar is OK now, seeing as you've just had a meal, but no wonder you've been feeling woozy, doubling the dose and not eating enough. One pill, with three square meals a day, and no arguing about how impossible it is to eat when you're on an op: I've heard it all before. You can put your shirt back on now, by the way."

Shivering slightly, and not just from the cold, I do as she says. "Oh, and one more thing – I understand that you are no longer in a relationship, as you were at the time of your last physical, but I still need to ask about your sexual health. Antidepressants can often affect libido and erectile function, so it's important that you tell me if you've noticed any changes." She eyes me brightly; I abandon my efforts to tuck my shirt back in and slump down on the sofa in dismay. What, in the name of all that's good, am I to tell this nice lady doctor who looks like Rita Hayworth, with eyes that would put Elizabeth Taylor's to shame? How does she know I'm no longer with Ruth? Oh, because she's with Harry, of course… but I never told her that I was seeing Ruth… she must have figured it out, or perhaps Ruth mentioned something during her last physical; how dreadful. I can't, absolutely cannot, discuss this sort of thing with her, or admit that since that last, humiliating, failed time with Ruth, months ago, I haven't felt a flicker of desire, nor so much as a twitch of interest in any woman, until… well, until now. Oh dear, what's wrong with me? She's my doctor, for heaven's sake!

"It's quite alright, Malcolm, you can tell me anything." Doctor Chapman smiles encouragingly, as the hot colour burns its way up into my face and I struggle to compose myself enough to speak. "I…I…I'm not accustomed to discussing these matters with anyone, Doctor." She replies, "Please, call me Sally. Everyone else does. I wouldn't ask if it weren't important…sexuality plays such a large part in overall physical and psychological health, though, don't you think?" This is ridiculous: I'm forty-seven and a half, and still as tongue-tied as a teenager where my own physicality is concerned. Come on, Wynn-Jones. "I haven't been involved with anyone since…since my relationship ended," I tell Sally, after a few minutes have passed, "so there's really nothing to report." Quite literally, nothing, I add silently, and pray for this late-night doctor's visit to end. She makes a note and waits for me to continue. "I've had so much to think about and cope with lately, I haven't had any interest in that sort of thing." Sally watches me patiently, and somewhat wretchedly, I conclude, "Besides, at my age, things aren't quite what they once were." Not that I've had much experience to go on… She glances up sharply. "Ah. What do you mean by that?" Oh, no. My face must turn puce, because she probes, "Are you talking about impotence? Because if so, believe me, there's not a man at Thames House, or in London, for that matter, who hasn't experienced it at one time or another. And it's an eminently treatable condition, these days." I don't know what to say; I have no intention of discussing what happened with Ruth, or my fears about never being with another woman again.

Sally changes her posture, crossing her legs at the knee, and the hem of her dress falls away slightly to reveal long, toned legs. Immediately, I avert my eyes. "I can't make you out," she says conversationally, "you'd put the most prudish Victorian sensibilities to shame, and yet you're keenly, almost painfully aware of women, or at least, of me." Her eyes rest on me, amused; there's an odd glint in them that makes me look, and then look again, dry-mouthed and pulse racing. Surely she's not… "Why is that, do you think?" Her eyes seek mine out, and she gives me a slow smile that warms me like a sunrise. "I'm going to make this easy for you, Malcolm. As of midnight, I'm no longer CMO at Five; I'm taking a sabbatical and going over to Langley to do some training with the CIA's medical corps." Her smile widens, and instead of feeling sick with anxiety and uncertainty, I relax, as the meaning behind her last words sinks in. "Perhaps," I venture, testing the unfamiliar ground that seems to be opening before me, "because you're a very attractive woman, and very attractive women don't usually bother with men like me." She holds my gaze as she says, "They don't know what they're missing out on, then." The hallway clock strikes half past eleven, and I get to my feet, crossing the small space between us; she stands up too. "Hello, Sally," I say, resting my hands lightly on the silk-clad curves of her waist, and she slips her arms around my neck. "The answer is yes, by the way," she whispers in my ear, as she presses herself against me, and offers her mouth; we kiss gently, at first, and I whisper back, "What was the question?" Her lips curve against my cheek.

"Come to bed with me," she grins.

And so I do.