The room had been dark for two hours and neither of them had slept.
She lay facing the wall. He lay facing her back. The inches between them were the longest distance she had ever known, which was saying something, because she had known some long distances.
At some point a car passed outside and swept its headlights across the ceiling—slow, indifferent. In the brief light she saw her own hand, open on the pillow in front of her face. She thought: if he reaches for that hand, I'll let him.
He didn't reach for her hand.
She heard him breathe. Not the long, oceanic breathing of sleep—something shallower, something alert. He was awake. She had known it for over an hour, and he had known it about her, and neither of them had spoken, and this was its own kind of conversation.
She moved her foot three inches back along the sheet. Just her foot. Just a heel finding the cool fabric at the edge of where she'd been lying. An accident, if she decided she wanted it to be.
She waited.
His hand found her hip. No question in it. No apology. Just his hand, warm through the thin cotton, settling there like he had always meant to put it exactly there and had only been deciding when.
She felt her own breathing change.
"Hey," he said. His voice had the gravel of someone who'd been awake for hours in the dark.
She didn't turn around. She said, "Hey."
That was all either of them needed. The rest was quiet, and close, and theirs.