She slept on her stomach. Arms folded under her, digging into her ribcage. Face pressed against the book she had been reading. There would be thin red lines on her face when she woke up, but she didn't care. There wouldn't be anyone to see anyway; he was on a mission and wasn't due back until later that evening.

She hovered on the edge of true sleep. Somehow she couldn't really sleep well without him there, without his body heating the other side of the bed, without his hand or his foot lightly touching hers. He didn't wrap himself around her as she supposed other men did, but he did seek her out as they slept in the dark of the night, reaching out to touch her gently, perhaps to remind himself that he wasn't alone, perhaps to reassure her that he really did need her. She treasured those touches, skin gently kissing skin, a reminder that what they shared was real.

Early afternoon light filtered lazily through gauze curtains. She slipped deeper into the dream.

And heard the door open softly. She rolled over sleepily and sat up, rubbing her eyes.

"You're early!" She leapt up and ran to embrace him. He spun her around much as he had the second time they had met, although this time he didn't shrug her off like a cat that has been startled. Instead he folded her into his arms and stroked her hair. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, smiling. He smelt of blood and dirt and sweat and hot leather. And something else, that musky scent that could only be him. She let herself linger in his arms, unwilling to end the embrace.

He ended it, pulling away from her and looking down into her eyes. His eyes were silver, the color of storm clouds barely held at bay. He kissed her then, quietly and quickly, and stripped off a glove to smooth the fine welts on her cheek. She smiled at him sweetly, and felt her eyebrows shoot up in surprise as he rested his forehead against her shoulder. Before she could ask him whether something was wrong, he sank to both knees and pressed his face against her thigh.

She reached down and slid a lock of dark hair through her fingers. He would tell her, or not. She didn't mind. He was quiet and strange and not to be understood. My lion, she thought.

His arms slid around her leg, one hand moving up to grasp her hip, the other gripping the back of her thigh. She stood still, sensing that he needed to hold her this way. She wondered what had happened on that mission to provoke a reaction like this. He hardly ever touched her this way when they were awake, even when they were alone, and she felt that each kiss, each hug, each smile was a jewel to be strung on a chain, held up to the light to admire, and locked away carefully. She touched his hair again.

After several long moments he reared up onto one knee and looked up at her, his expression so solemn that she could do nothing but match it, looking down at him calmly, memorizing his face as she did each time she looked at him.

He reached inside his jacket and her heart began to hammer in her chest. What was he doing?

He pulled out the tiny box and flipped the top open with one smooth motion, holding it up to her, sparking the lazy afternoon light into bright rainbow motes that danced on the walls like brightly-clad couples waltzing.