Flannel Nightgowns and Other Strategic Conundrums

For Ginger and her J.

Because love should be fun, sweet, and forever.

X X X

There was just so damned much of it.

Long. Flowing. Thick.

Bulky, one might say. But not in the same way as a Tec vest or a flak jacket.

Voluminous.

And when she moved just right, he could see her ankles. He'd never really noticed her ankles before, what with years of boots and BDU trousers and heavy regulation socks. Even when she'd worn her dress uniforms, he hadn't paid attention to the ankle portion of the package.

Come to think of it, he hadn't really ever thought much about ankles in any capacity. They were just there—kind of bony and awkward—spanning the divide between feet and calves. Bendy. Susceptible to spraining. A necessary evil—like wrists. Or foreheads. Or nostrils.

But when they were the only parts of her that were visible—well, hell—he was going to look at them. He wasn't stupid enough to pass up an opportunity to ogle his wife.

His wife.

A wife who had very nice ankles, he decided. Pale and slim and beautifully shaped. Better than other people's ankles—but then, all of Sam's parts were categorically better than other people's whatevers. Of that, he felt certain. He'd done the research.

Jack brushed the dust off his hands and stepped up to stand next to the breakfast bar. He'd already deposited the firewood on the hearth, having gotten up earlier than Sam to get the place warm. He'd built and lit the fire before doing a few chores in the kitchen. Then, he'd traipsed out to the woodpile for a few more logs. Once he'd replenished the supply, he'd headed into the kitchen to start breakfast—only to see her already busily at work.

Wearing that.

Whatever the hell that was.

Scowling a bit in consternation, Jack returned his gaze to those ankles. They were bare at the moment—as were her feet—her elegant, neatly-arched feet—which he could just barely catch in fleeting glimpses beneath miles of billowing fabric as she puttered around the tiny kitchen.

Of course, contemplating Sam's feet and ankles brought him to muse longingly on the exquisite, smooth, unseen curves of Sam's calves. And thinking about those calves led to slightly more sultry cogitations about her knees—and her knees drew his attention upward to her thighs—and, well, damn. He could lose himself completely contemplating the glories beyond.

All of which delights were completely covered by whatever it was that she was currently wearing. Pajamas? A nightdress? No—a nightgown. High-necked and long-sleeved and full-skirted. It was blue—nearly the same clear cerulean of her eyes—with tiny white dots. It looked soft enough—not that he'd touched it yet—and as she moved, it swirled around her body like water, or mist, or the wind. Buttons marched down the entire front from neck to toe, and there was a tiny ruffle around the collar. Very modest. Very old-fashioned. Like something out of Dickens or Austen.

And tent-like.

Like a Victorian yurt with sleeves.

And completely unlike anything he'd ever imagined that Sam Carter would ever own, let alone wear. And sure as hell not like anything he'd envisioned that she'd wear on what was ostensibly her honeymoon.

It had been a hell of a shock. He'd disentangled his limbs from hers less than twenty minutes ago and slipped out of bed, then done the fire thing. Started the coffee pot. Rummaged around in the fridge and found the eggs. Pulled the toaster out from the cabinet next to the stove.

He'd listened with half an ear as the toilet had flushed and the faucet had turned on and off again in the master bathroom. As she'd opened her suitcase with a loud 'fwip' of the zipper. He himself hadn't bothered getting dressed per se—he'd only dragged on the pair of jeans from which she'd divested him the night before.

Jack grinned as he glanced down at said jeans. It had taken a few minutes to find them. He'd crawled out of bed only to remember that he'd fallen asleep au naturale. A cursory glance around the bedroom hadn't yielded anything more wearable than Sam's panties on the nightstand, and he didn't think they'd suit him.

So, he'd followed the carnage left during the previous evening's activities as if he were Hansel and their discarded articles of clothing were breadcrumbs. He'd found his socks first—and then hers. His boxers had ended up under the bed—too dusty now to bother digging around for. Stepping over all their shoes, he'd made his way around the end of the bed where he'd found his jeans buried beneath hers. He'd scooped them up off the floor and grinned as he'd passed her bra—still hanging off the low right-hand post of the footboard.

Through the door, he'd found his shirt tossed over the back of the couch, and her sweater just inside the front door. They'd barely made it into the cabin last evening before they'd started shedding their breadcrumbs, a memory which had resulted in him grinning like an idiot as he'd zipped and buttoned.

It had been almost two full days since they'd said their 'I do's'. They'd decided to do it as soon as the paperwork for their transfers had come through—and it had been wonderfully low-key. Only a dozen of their closest friends as guests in Jack's backyard with the chaplain officiating and Daniel and Teal'c as witnesses. Cassie had been their ring bearer and flower girl—and she'd been the first one to throw her arms around them once the preacher had declared them legal.

They'd gone out for brunch and returned home for cake before chasing everyone away so they could pack. Then, they'd paused only to change clothes before throwing their things into his truck and heading up north to the cabin.

It had taken him eight long years to get her up here, and he hadn't intended on wasting a single moment more. He'd had plans, damn it. Hot, sweet, sticky plans for the few days they had alone together before they needed to report to their new posts. None of which plans could be described as 'demure'.

So the fact that she'd brought this virginal—albeit pretty—sleepwear awning up to their love nest made absolutely no sense.

Jack leaned against the counter, observing Sam as she worked at the sink. She'd found a teapot in the depths of the pantry, and was rinsing the dust off it. Jack frowned a little, wracking his brain to remember when he'd even acquired a teapot, only to come up empty. Daniel, probably, on one of the many trips he'd made up here over the years. Or Teal'c. He'd hauled some weird Chulakian herbal crap up the few times he'd come up. The man liked his hot drinks with the sticks and leaves still floating around the cup.

Sam didn't seem to notice him there, so intent was she on her task. She rubbed off the worst of the muck with a paper towel, then switched the faucet to 'hot' and set the teapot in the sink and looked around. Only to frown, her tawny eyebrows furrowing downward.

"Jack?" She'd obviously thought that he was still in the living room—she'd practically yelled his name.

He schooled his features into something less than a leer when he answered. "Yeah?"

She looked over at him, a little startled to find him there. Nodded towards the sink, she turned her body in his direction and modulated her tone. "Where's the dish soap?"

He pointed towards the window sill above the sink. "Right up there."

"Really?" Glancing over towards the window, she bit her lip as she scanned at the plethora of objects there. "I looked up there and didn't see it."

"Behind the Ajax."

"Behind the—" Scooching up on her toes, she leaned over the sink to reach for the plastic bottle. The position draped the flannel closely over her delectable rear end and lifted the hem to expose those feet—and—holy crap.

Those ankles. And a single foot, now, pointed delicately behind her as she counterbalanced on one leg and lifted the other in a move like a dancer.

And damned but if he'd started imagining what the rest of her body looked like in that moment—hidden as it was beneath the nightclothes curtain. Lithe, and fit, and soft. Two nights, now, as her husband had allowed him deep, clarifying insights into just how mesmerizing his wife actually was. And here she was, all encased in unassuming thick cotton that skimmed those curves as if it were cream flowing over a statue.

Good lord almighty.

Maybe those Victorians were on to something. Apparently, ankles could be the impetus for a lot of naughty daydreaming. A gateway fantasy, so to speak, to things that he'd spent far too often contemplating in days past. Years. And weekends. Briefings. Budgetary meetings—

Long, long nights spent lying alone in bed or bedrolls, glaring up at the ceiling and just—imagining.

Shifting a little against the counter, Jack suddenly wished he had a shirt on. Or underwear. Or looser pants.

Because—damn.

And because he didn't have to imagine anymore. He knew. Knew very well, as a matter of fact, just how lovely those ankles actually were, having liberated them the night before from the confines of her socks. And having spent much of the past two nights with them wrapped around his waist. So getting just the scarcest glimpses of them here, in the bright glow of dawn, in the kitchen he'd always pictured her inhabiting during the long, lonely years when none of this was probable yet so very, very much desired—was doing things to him. Just because he did know, even if he hadn't realized that he knew what he knew until this exact moment.

He knew her biblically. And hot damn but if he wasn't already antsy to get to know her that way again.

And again.

And again.

And there was that stirring again. Just a little niggle. Just the beginning of desire lapping at the pit of his soul. Despite his entire body being imbued with the warm glow of sated lassitude, he could feel himself starting to think about it again. About her again.

All because of that damned ginormous nightgown and hinted glimpses of perfect, pale skin. And—ankles.

"I'm glad I found this." She'd lathered up the teapot and was working at it with a sponge she'd found in a drawer. "I packed a few boxes of my favorite herbal tea, since I didn't know if the shops up here would carry it."

"Hmmm."

"And I knew you'd have coffee, but I figured I'd want something else if it got chilly."

"Hmmm."

She held the teapot aloft, turning it this way and that. The light coming in through the kitchen window licked at the diamonds in her wedding ring, sending multi-colored sparklets singing through the air and onto her cheeks.

Not that she seemed to notice anything but the teapot. "I think I've just about got it clean."

And then she was rinsing it again, turning to place the now-clean kettle on the towel he'd laid next to the sink when he'd cleaned out the coffee pot. "Did you want to fry the eggs or scramble them?"

"Hmmm?"

Sam turned, narrowing a look at him. "The eggs. Did you want to fry them or scramble them?"

"Eggs?"

She reached for the hand towel draped over the handle of the oven door, using it to swipe her hands dry. Giving him an odd look, she returned the towel to its bar before touching the frying pan sitting on the stove. "Breakfast. Eggs, right? You got them out while I was in the bathroom. Before you went outside for the firewood."

"Oh. Eggs." Jack straightened, swallowing past the sudden dryness in his throat. "Yes. Breakfast."

"Aren't you cold?" She flashed him a concerned sort of glance.

"Cold?" He shook his head, vaguely aware that he probably resembled a lobotomized chipmunk. "No. Not. That."

When she moved, the nightgown skimmed along other curves, shushing across her belly and ribs as she leaned back against the stove. "Are you okay?"

Okay? No. No, he was not okay. Because there was this nightgown in his kitchen. A freaking nightgown taunting him. Letting him see just enough to know that he wasn't seeing anything at all.

Nothing, that is, but those graceful little toes peeking out from beneath the blue swirling hemline and the briefest, most tantalizing hints of more glories hidden behind the flannel. So, no. He was most certainly not okay. "Yes. I'm fine. Why? What?"

"Jack?" She crossed her arms at her midsection—a pose that thrust certain other softnesses into full relief against the softness of the fabric—softnesses which indicated rather pointedly that she was, indeed, chilly. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." His voice cracked. Cracked, damn it. As if he had just discovered hair on his nethers. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Nope. Nothing. Why do you ask?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Because you're acting kind of weird."

"Weird?"

"Yes." Sam ducked her chin, her eyebrows lifting. "You're staring at me."

"No I'm not."

"Yes. You are." She twiddled a finger in his direction. "You're standing there just—staring at me."

Well, hell. She'd always been too smart for her own good. Jack frowned, dragging his eyes from her and focusing instead on the sink. There was a chip in the porcelain just below the faucet. How had that gotten there? Did it matter? Of course it didn't. But if he was looking at the chip, then he wasn't obsessing over—

Look at the chip, Jack. Look at the chip.

Ankles.

"What's with the shroud?" And—he'd just blurted it right out.

For the longest time, she merely stared at him, her expression a conflicted, quizzical mess. She unfolded her arms, toying absently with the button at her throat as she assessed her husband. "The what?"

"The shroud. The tent thing you're wearing."

Those blue eyes flew wide. "My nightie?"

"Nightie?" Jack assessed the garment in question. "That's a nightie?"

She looked down at the thing, smoothing at the fabric with her palms. "It's just a nightgown, Jack."

"A nightgown."

"Yes." She'd spoken slowly—as if she were conversing with a child of questionable intelligence. "A nightgown."

"Why is it so big?"

"Big?"

Jack rolled his eyes, taking a cautious step towards her. "I guess I've just never seen you wear something like that."

"Something like what?"

He gestured towards her with both hands—making large, billowy shapes in the air as if he were tracing clouds. "Like that."

She took another glance downward. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's just—" Jack sighed, grimacing. "There's just so much of it."

"So, what?" Stepping in his direction, she lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "What do you think I should wear?"

"Nothing." As soon as the word had erupted out of his mouth, he knew it had been the wrong one.

"Nothing?" A smile teased at her lips. "You think that I should walk around in nothing?"

Walk around in nothing? Holy hell, yes. Yes! Jack raked his hand through his hair, ending with an earnest scratch behind his ear as he considered the wisdom of saying what he was actually thinking. He wisely chose to lie—and live. "No. No! Of course not. I guess I was just surprised to see you wearing something like that. I didn't peg you as the—"

"As the what?" She waited as he struggled for the right words, rocking a little on her bare feet as the fabric swished back and forth against her legs. "As the what, Jack?"

"I didn't peg you as the nightgown type."

"The nightgown type." She passed her tongue along her lips. "There's a nightgown type?"

"Apparently."

"And what exactly is the nightgown type, Jack?"

Bea Arthur. Angela Lansbury. The freaking Queen of England. None of whom had ankles even remotely as sexy as those currently just barely visible beneath the blue tent in front of him—but still. He sucked in a bracing sort of breath. "Just—you know. Nightgown ladies."

"Nightgown ladies." The words seemed worse coming out of her mouth. So, of course, she had to say them again. "Nightgown ladies."

"Sam—I—"

But she'd moved back towards the sink and picked up the tea kettle. Grabbing the towel up again, she started drying the last of the drops of water off the outside of the pot.

"For the record, Jack." She glanced at him pointedly before returning her attention to the task at hand. "I only wear this in the winter. When it's cold out. It's comfy."

"Comfy?"

"Comfortable." It was an unnecessary clarification, but she made it sound vital. Finishing up with the teapot, Sam tossed the towel onto the counter before flipping on the faucet. "It's nice and warm."

Warm? Freaking hot is what it was. What with the way it skimmed her curves and frothed around her legs as she moved. But he couldn't actually say that, could he? Because it was a nightgown, for heaven's sake—and nobody got turned on by flannel nightgowns, did they? At least, nobody who was self-ambulatory and didn't need to gum their food.

Good lord, he was hopeless. "It looks like it."

She watched as the water filled the pot, going back up on her tiptoes to see into the thing to make sure it didn't overflow. Once satisfied, she turned off the faucet and turned just enough to lay the teapot on the back burner of the stove. She put the top on it with a little 'tunk'. "It is. And it's roomy, so I can move around in it."

So could he. Both of them could. Move. Around. In. There. Wisely, Jack pressed his lips together against that thought. But—ankles. And as she moved at the stove, he was getting little flashes of them again. And thinking that maybe the Victorian yurt wasn't such a bad thing after all.

"And I've never been up here before." She tilted her head towards the little window above the sink, but whether she was indicating the kitchen, or the cabin, or Minnesota wasn't clear. "So I really didn't know what to expect temperature-wise. Early spring this far north? I'd imagined all kinds of scenarios in which we got snowed in, or it was raining or whatever. And since I don't really like being cold, I threw this into my pack at the last minute. Just in case."

"Just in case."

Her fingers slid lightly along the kettle's handle as she studied him. "And so, it just so happened to be the first thing I found when I got up this morning."

"Ah."

She smiled. Gently. "And since I didn't want to waste any time with you, I put it on."

Jack opened his mouth to attempt an answer, but the look on her face stopped him. He'd seen that look before—usually right before something big happened. Something—devastating, or profound, or impossible. She was—cogitating. Planning. Strategizing.

And one of her hands had risen to her throat, a fingertip running along the ruffle that yearned up towards her jawline. She teased at the top button with her thumb. "But I could take it off if you want me to."

Take it off? Jack watched as she lifted her other hand, cognizant of how her blue eyes had leveled on him even as he was transfixed on what her hands were doing at her collar.

She slid the button free. "Jack?"

But she'd moved on to the next button, and Jack could only murmur another, "Hmm?"

Her elegant fingers liberated the next button from its flannel prison. And the next. "Do you want me to take it off?"

"Ummmm."

She paused at the fifth button, running her thumb along the skin now visible. "I mean—if it bothers you this much, I'd be happy to do so."

"No." He straightened, pushing away from the breakfast bar. "No. I'm just—"

But she'd released yet another button, and was now moving in his direction. Slowly, deliberately, as her bare feet made little patting noises on the wood floor and she'd unfastened the yurt enough that he could see her collarbones. And just a bit of pale, smooth skin below. Curving. Swelling.

Oh, dear heaven.

She stopped right in front of him, peeping up at him from beneath her lashes as she popped another little white circle free. There were shadows now, in the opening where once the buttons had been—and whenever she took a breath, things—shifted—around in there. "Jack?"

"Yeah, Sam?"

But she didn't say anything else. She took his hand, instead, tugging gently as she drew him into the living room.

He hadn't turned the lamps on as he'd worked earlier, so the only light in there was coming from the fireplace where flames danced in a vibrant melange of orange and red and yellow. He'd always liked the place—it felt comfortable and well-worn, with its overstuffed leather couch and the bookshelves and the stone hearth. But his wife wasn't looking at the decor. She was watching him as she came to a stop directly in front of the sofa.

She placed her hand flat on his sternum and gave him a little shove. "Sit."

And boy-howdy, Jack sat.

"You see, Jack." She came closer again, until her knees and his were touching. Capturing his dark eyes with her brilliant ones, she went back to work on her buttons. "The beautiful thing about nightgowns like this is that they're really versatile."

Cotton. He was pretty sure his mouth was filled with cotton. Still, he managed to breathe out a soft, "Oh?"

Sam nodded, a knowing sort of grin teasing at her lips. "You can just throw it on and you don't really have to worry about what you have on underneath it."

"Sounds convenient." Jack watched as she caught at the skirt of the nightie, gathering it up in her hands. "Handy, even."

In a graceful, lithe move, she put first one knee—and then the other—on either side of his thighs, settling herself astride his lap as the blue flannel billowed around them both like a soft, azure wave.

"And the thing is—" Leaning close, she pressed her hand to his chest, tangling her fingers in the hair there. "Nobody can tell what you aren't wearing underneath it."

But Jack could tell. He'd automatically reached for her when she'd sat, his hands finding first the flannel—just as soft as he'd imagined it would be—and then her skin. Glorious, smooth, soft skin—warm and sweet and firm. Knees—and thighs, and then still more as his fingers wandered around beneath the billows. With a little sigh, he smiled up at his bride. "Convenient."

"That's what I was saying." Sam leaned into him, her mouth hovering over his for a beat before she drew back a little with a flare of her eyes. "But I can take it off if you want."

But Jack hadn't attained the rank of general for nothing. He'd already figured out a different strategy. Scooting her closer with one hand, he cupped her jaw with the other. Tilting his chin upward, he found her lips with his own, teasing at them with his tongue until she opened for him. Until she'd wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed herself flush against him and moaned softly against his mouth.

Smiling, Jack's fingers explored further beneath the blue. The curve of her hip, the dimple at the base of her spine, the beautiful, perfect line of her back. The rougher skin of a scar just above her hip. The mole he'd discovered on their wedding night—just below her right shoulder blade.

He left her lips and scattered tiny kisses along her cheek, her jaw, the delicate curve of her throat. He tugged at her earlobe with his teeth, groaning when she moaned anew, when her body melted against his, all soft, and strong, and vital.

"Jack?" Her whisper was hot against his temple.

"Yes, Sam?" He found her pulse point with his tongue, and then with his teeth, gratified at the shiver that made its way down her body at his touch.

Husky soft, her voice soothed towards him through the shifting, hazy need. "Do you want me to take off this nightgown?"

"Not a chance." He reached between their bodies and found the next button, sliding it free with a nimble flick of his fingers. "I'm pretty sure we can work around it."

"You're a strategic genius."

"That's why you married me, isn't it."

"Damn straight."

X X X

"You know, we still haven't had breakfast."

Lying now, on the couch. She was draped across him, still mostly clothed. Jack, on the other hand, had lost his jeans again.

"What time is it?"

Sam craned her head back to look at the clock above the fireplace. "Nearly noon."

"Are you hungry?"

"For eggs?" She nuzzled into his throat, again, sighing against his skin. "Not really."

"We could drive into Monticello and grab something for lunch. There are some pretty decent restaurants there."

She sighed, the movement bringing her even closer to him—a feat that seemed impossible given the fact that they were sharing the smallest couch in the history of cabin sofas. It was really more of a loveseat, an amazingly apt appellation in consideration of their recent activities.

A loveseat, that was, in fact, shorter than he was. Jack's feet were propped up on one armrest, and he'd finally scrounged around and snagged her discarded sweater to use as a pillow to cushion where his shoulders lay against the other. Sam had simply collapsed on top of him after their interlude—or rather—she'd collapsed after their most recent go. They'd slept in between rounds—tangled together on the leather cushions like teenagers or sleepy kittens.

And still, the nightgown had remained on.

Unbuttoned, wrinkled, crumpled, and awry—but on.

"That sounds like work."

"What—going to Monticello?" Smiling against her hair, Jack inhaled deeply. The fire had long-since died, but the sun shining in through the kitchen windows had bathed the place in a sweet kind of hazy warmth. He'd spent the last few minutes before she'd woken up watching the dust motes dance in the air above them.

"No." She shook her head, her fingers making lazy circles in his chest hair. "Taking a shower. Getting dressed. Getting decent so that we can go to Monticello."

"Ah." She had a point, but Jack felt certain that the restaurants in the largest town close to his cabin wouldn't take kindly to them walking in as they were. Her with her nightie agape and askew, and him not wearing anything but his wedding ring and the flush of satisfaction.

"You know, Jack." Her fingers traced along his collarbone, and then outward towards his shoulder. "If I'd known how awesome your cabin was, I would have taken you up on your invitation ages ago."

He snorted. "If you'd taken me up on my invitations, we'd have ended up on this couch."

"Yeah?"

"And then we'd have ended up in Leavenworth."

She turned her face to plant a kiss on his chest. "But we'd have been together in Leavenworth."

"Would that have been worth it?"

"You're worth it, Jack.We—us—this. This is worth it." She regarded him for a long moment, a sudden shadow crossing her lovely features. "And it took me too long to realize that."

His throat was tight again—only not from desire this time, but from a sudden spate of emotion that settled somewhere near his heart. Gratitude, maybe, that they'd finally made it. That the universe had seen fit to allow them both a second chance at something beautiful. He kissed her hair again, the strands cool and slick beneath his lips. "It took us both too long. But we're here now, so there's no use dwelling on the past."

"I'm going to hate being separated again." She'd nearly whispered the words. "Now that I know what it's like."

To be married. To be together. To spend long, sweet hours entwined on an ancient couch in front of a dying fire. To be able to touch and be touched. Now that they knew what it was like to be in love. Openly and freely.

That's what she hadn't said, but it's what she'd meant.

Jack had been trying not to think about the future. They still had nearly a week before they had to report—him to DC and her to Nevada. He'd been attempting to live in the moment and not worry about what came next.

Tightening his hold on the wonder that was his wife, he sighed. "We'll figure it out. Get together when we can. When you're on Earth and I'm not dealing with crises. We'll make it work."

Another long silence stretched between them before Sam breathed out a laugh. "I remember when my dad was deployed, he and my mom used to 'meet in the middle'."

"Meet in the middle?"

"It's what they called it. They'd choose a city between his post and our home, find a hotel near the airport and meet up there for a night or two. Mark and I would go stay with my grandparents or our friends."

"Let's do that." Jack watched as Sam pushed herself upright—as she disentangled herself from him and turned to perch on the edge of the couch. He touched her again—curving his palm around her hip. "As often as we can."

She raked her fingers through her hair—trying to make order out of the chaos—only to give up with a wry grin as she stood up. "That's a great plan."

"And when we meet in the middle." He tried to look as official as possible. "I'll bring the beer and you bring that damned blue nightgown, and we'll stay in bed as long as possible."

"Perfect."

Stretching a bit, Jack turned onto his side to watch as his wife started to move. Reaching out, he caught her hand and stopped her. "Sam?"

Turning, she looked down at him. "Yeah, Jack?"

"I love you." He wasn't the kind of guy who said that mushy stuff—but he wanted to make sure that she knew. "You know that, right?"

And she smiled that smile. The one he cherished the most. The one that made everything better because it was real and true and brilliant. "Yeah. I know."

"Okay." He smiled back—just because he wanted to. And because she was beautiful and smart and entirely too good for him, yet she somehow wanted him anyway. "Good."

She trailed her fingertips along the stubble on his jaw before stepping around the end table and heading towards the bedroom. Their bedroom. In their cabin. With him. Where she belonged.

And if he looked at just the right angle, he could see her feet beneath the wrinkled hem of that damned blue nightie—along with her ankles, and flashes of those perfectly shaped calves. Boy howdy. He could ogle that all day.

"Jack?" Pausing a few feet away, she'd turned and was looking at him.

He wasn't even embarrassed that she'd caught him at the ogling. "Yeah?"

"What are you looking at?"

Easy, this time. The truth was easy. "You."

"Me? Why?"

"Because you amaze me. And you're beautiful. And even wearing a Victorian yurt you're the most perfect thing I've ever seen."

"A Victorian—" she giggled, rolling her eyes just a bit. "You're kind of impossible, you know that?"

"But a strategic genius."

"There's that."

"That's why you married me, after all."

"I love you too, Jack." She shook her head in wonder, sunlight glinting off gold. Her expression softened, her smile going a little misty. A little sweet. Precious.

And then she moved forward and disappeared through the doorway, blue flannel swirling in her wake.