"Yesterday was Philippa's birthday."

She's grouchy. Her sleep was interrupted early in the night when James needed assistance with his pull-ups, and now at long last, the brush of coat fabric and the jangle of keys reawakens her to the chill in the living room. Her husband is home.

Cobb's face is set and creased as if he's left one foot out the door, in the light rain misting the driveway, thinking, always thinking. She crosses her arms over her silk night slip.

"I'm sorry, Mal, really," he begins the tradition. "I had some really bad people tailing me in Dubai, almost didn't shake 'em. The market's been unstable all year, the big guys are getting nervous, and they all want someone to train them; half the time, it's like they know we're coming."

Mal swallows a weary sigh and scans the pillows on the divan. One, three, five. Eight? She shakes her head.

"You were supposed to be home five weeks ago. I know, I checked," she says, tone low enough not to wake her children but sharp enough to lacerate through his line of bullshit.

Dom's brows furrow.

"You– you checked? You're keeping tabs on me?" Dom's ire stirs. His hair is reflective from the rain, slight beading on the shoulders of his suit.

He had always been her Dionysus, her living breathing American man, since her father slyly bumped into her before class, the strapping Gatsby type in tow. Since then, he's been her Achilles, her ankles always seeming to catch the razor's edge when it comes to their passion for the research. Where she enters with caution, Dom plows through with all his trademark exceptionalism, bravado, and stunts with weaponry she's fairly certain he's never touched in his waking life. If he gets caught often, it is because his ego follows him, announcing his prowess every dreamscape he goes. She aches to slap him or to bed him. She can't be sure which.

"I saw Arthur Tuesday, he said you finished your last job five weeks ago," she steps closer, still guarded by her crossed arms.

"What was I supposed to do, Mal? Get shot to make it home on time?" he asks, posing the irrational with a toss of his hands. His hair falls out of place slightly.

"You could have at least called! Your children are starting to forget what you look like," she accuses, gathering her robe from where she'd been keeping vigil and snatching it up around her shoulders.

She can feel him getting desperate since her forgiveness isn't forthcoming. He surges close behind her as she begins turning out lights and slowly, deliberately retracing stale footsteps back to bed.

"Honey, please, come on," he beseeches, pawing her elbows, her shoulders, her slim waist. She's lost ten pounds since September.

She won't give him the satisfaction.

"Dom, please, not tonight, I've had it up to here—," she raises her hand above her distressed curl-topped head.

"Mal, honey, look at me," he urges, turning her to him at the door of their bedroom. "I know I've been missing in action lately, as a husband and a father."

Her brows tilt upward with a momentary energy.

"Understatements which cannot get under any further," she says, fingers resting on the cold door handle.

Dom presses his eyes shut, his lips together, stung but unwilling to admit defeat.

"Yes, yes, I know. You're absolutely right," he admits. He's rubbing her arms, the Segway into another chance. "Come here."

Tenderly, he gathers her in his arms, her own vaguely grazing his back.

"You know you shouldn't worry about me," he murmurs into her shoulder, trying to sway with her the way she used to console him when he woke up from the nightmares. Tears threaten to sting her eyes, but she swallows around them and keeps staring at the divan swimming in the living room shadows. "I always come back to you, don't I? To us, to this?"

He pulls back and searches her eyes. She can only search right back. She knows who the other woman is, and there is nothing she can do to compete with her. The dreams have a stranglehold on everything they touch. From the beginning, she insisted research be conducted in the living-room. He called her old-fashioned, but a defiled marriage bed was one small step for mankind too far.

She presses her lips together, wets them before planting a tiny kiss beneath his left ear. He kisses her neck and shoulder, reverent again.

"Come to bed," she finally whispers, opening the door at last to the sanctuary.