A/N: An M chapter

He honestly hadn't expected his non-verbal confession to bring him here, to turn the earth far enough on its axis that she somehow ends up in his bed. He worries he's dreaming the mornings he wakes to find her so close, warm and bundling the blankets in her fists, keeping them mostly to herself. But it's not a dream Gillian that he comes into contact with when he reaches a touch over her ribs, sliding down the dip of her waist to the fullness of her hip. It's not wisps that break into particles of oxygen, of carbon dioxide, of nitrogen gas that slip through his fingers. No, this Gillian is warm and solid beneath his fingertips, sighing into the stroke of his touch even in her sleep. This Gillian is real and entirely naked in his bed. His bed. How he'd gotten her there, he would never understand. Somehow everything he felt for her, she felt in return.

He remembers how she'd told him things with her voice that her words didn't say; how "I want you" meant "I need you", how "make love to me" meant "tell me all your thousand truths." He'd done everything as she'd asked, the trembling of his bared body the only voicing of his concern, his concern that it would end, that she would leave. And she'd assuaged his every fear with the sound of his name tumbling off of her tongue, followed by a strained and twisting plea.

It was then that he slid into her that first time, ears so open to how her gasp had come first, then morphed into a throaty, appreciative moan as the entire length of her body squeezed more tightly around his. Those little sounds of enjoyment were meant as more than encouragement; they were tiny testaments to how much she really loved him, how completely she'd surrendered herself to his loving. He surprises himself at knowing their true meaning so instantly. It's a skill his newfound understanding of her feelings for him had instilled. And her body tells him the same things, but louder, clearer.

She had cried his name as she came, the single syllable instantly becoming his favourite for all else it really entailed. He had followed quickly at the sheer honesty of the moment, his hips stuttering when he no longer had the strength to scream every statement with limber movements (powerful thrusts telling of such powerful feelings). And he'd marvelled at just how beautiful the complete truth of her was as she'd shivered at his withdrawal, shifting closer to his warmth the second his body touched down next to hers on the mattress.

Now, he watches her wake beside him for what must be the fourth or fifth time (he can't bring himself to count because he knows he can't count forever in numbers; infinity is merely a concept). He has the sudden urge to pinch himself. He squeezes against her hip, from the place where his hand hadn't yet managed to lift, as a yawn stretches from the confines of her throat and has her body following its movement and brushing against him.

He moves even closer, angling his body along her back and burying his nose into the hair at her nape to breathe in the scent of shampoo and skin.

"Morning," he greets her.

He's answered by way of a sleepy groan and he smiles at the amusement he feels at Gillian's not being a morning person. Her eyes fall closed in obvious denial of waking as her body turns to face his, cuddling in closer.

"Morning," she finally says.

He smiles at the sound of her voice, suddenly able to hear so much more in it.

"Planning to get up any time soon?"

She scoffs, her hands coming up to stroke leisurely through his hair. He lets out a sound much like purring at the repetitive touch and she giggles in response.

"Sunday," she replies, still near monosyllabic and sleepy.

"Alright, then," he responds, crossing his arms behind his head in a way that traps her hand in its place against his scalp and letting his eyes slip closed.

She smiles at the outright gesture of adoration as the two share a few moments of comfortable silence. She hadn't expected this when he had burst into her office and desperately urged her to see the unspoken in his actions. She hadn't expected a confession from him and she definitely didn't expect to return it. She didn't expect to be given a gift as great as the lightness in her chest and the further truth to her smile. But now that she has it, she's not ever giving it up. She's going to do everything in her power to bridge the language gap and hear the things he tells her, tell him things in a way she knows he'll understand. She's going to make this last forever (so many days she won't be able to count them like the nineteen that had passed since they'd first shared these truths and this bed). Forever still wouldn't be enough time with him.