The wood in the fireplace crackles and pops, cascading a stream of sparks as we sit together before the fire. Outside, the wind blows through the trees, but inside, there is only the sound of our breathing and the fire.
Light from the fire touches you with honey, across the planes of your face and warming your midnight hair. I touch the highlights where they brush against your hair and trace the light with a fingertip until it disappears into the shadow.
You look up from where you had nestled into my shoulder, your gray eyes sleepy, but not yet willing to give into the call of sleep. Your eyes almost form a question, but instead, you give me a small smile, warm and at peace.
“Sleepy?” I ask.
“Maybe,” you reply. “You make a good pillow.”
I brush my lips across your forehead. You’ll never really know what moments like this mean to me. I can’t explain them – my tongue doesn’t work that well. But perhaps I don’t have to. You lace your fingers between mine, and slowly drift off to sleep. The fire pops once again, but I just lay there, holding you. For once, all is right with my world.