Sometimes the historian in Diana keeps her from the present.

Even in moments like this, when the room is dim and lit only with candles. When Matthew is reclining beside her, looking only a scant few years older than she is, the protective circle of his arm about her shoulders timeless and unyielding. When there are no books to be read or stories to be told and all is silent but her own rhythmic breathing.

She can't stem the tide of her thoughts, can't stop wondering about the ancient vampire she has given her heart to, can't help but see him as the accumulation of a billion artifacts all banded together—a bottomless well of years gone by that she could spend her whole, short life trying to understand and never scratch the surface of.

Matthew's arm around her shoulders tightens. He draws her in close to his chest, cool lips pressing once to her forehead before lingering on her cheek. He smooths back her wild hair and static crackles in the dry room and she feels him smile against her face.

She spends so long wondering where and why and who else he has smiled at through the ages that she almost neglects to return his kiss.

And then her heart thuds painfully in her chest, and he takes a sharp breath in through his nose, and she arches her back to fill every gap between their bodies.

She has to hold on. To him, to who he is in just this moment, to the pieces of him he allows her to know and every bit she loves.