How did he do that? It didn’t matter how tired she was, how much she longed for her head to hit the pillow and just sleep, just one touch of his hand and he could make her burn.

How did she do that? Just lying there, her eyes almost closed, that sweet smile on her lips as she made herself comfy, and all he wanted to do was touch her and make her sing.

It didn’t even have to be anywhere sexy, although she’d come to realise most places on her body were erogenous zones when it came to him, but even just touching her shoulder, or if her foot stuck out of the blanket, that was enough.

It didn’t even have to be anywhere he usually thought of as someplace hot, although it didn’t seem to matter to parts of him what bit he saw, whether it was her tattoo or her toes, it all made him want to stroke it.

He could just cup her face.

She would look up at him.

Use those blue eyes.

Gaze at him from those hazel depths.

Feel his breath.

Hear her breath catch.

And she would reach out, her fingers tracing the lines of his muscles, skimming his scars, feeling his skin tauten as the small hairs stood proud.

And when she touched him, he knew he was falling all over again, as she read him like a blind man with a book of Braille, and knew his innermost secrets.

And as his lips descended on hers, she could feel the ‘verse turning around them, folding them in its embrace as he whispered his love into her mouth.

And as he kissed her, he knew this was where he was always meant to be, in her arms, telling her forever how much she was loved.

As they lay together afterwards, their bodies wet against each other, they drifted into dreams that wound through them, of laughter and joy, of long years and many children, stitched together into one life.