Engrossed in her novel, Celia barely registered the quiet click of the front door. Tom had oiled it after the fight, after she had complained that he always woke her up coming in so late, and she'd been mostly sleeping through the night since, waking only briefly to curl into him when he would slide under the quilts next to her. But tonight, she glanced up from the couch where she was swaddled under a blanket to find him crouched in the entryway, untying his boots.
She hadn't waited up for him after a performance since May, back when she wanted to ask him every night how it had gone and if he was happy with his performance, to kiss him goodnight and fall asleep with his hand tucked under the hem of her shirt like always. Slowly, the drain of the long nights had settled into her bones, and she was falling asleep before he could even text her at intermission. But the past few weeks, it had been a little bit like having her old Tom back. He called her during her lunch break – had even once shown up at the museum to join her – and always did the washing up and had even taken off the previous Saturday evening performance, gracing her with something akin to a long weekend and taking her out on a proper date for the first time in months. Even the roots of his dyed-ginger hair were blonde again, his last performance only days away.
"Hey, babe," she murmured, dog-earring her page so she could toss the book aside. No matter how interesting the story was, she was feeling much too lonely and a little too needy to ignore him.
Tom tensed, glanced up with startled eyes, and she laughed when he swore. "Celia, I didn't see you."
She smiled, combatting heavy eyes and lethargic limbs, and went to meet him halfway, where he enveloped her into a tight, sleepy hug, almost molding himself around her. His jumper was cool from the October chill, and she buried her face in his chest, rubbed her hands up and down his back, trying to pass some of her warmth to him. She heard his sigh, his steady heartbeat, and he pressed a soft kiss to her temple.
"How was the performance tonight?" she whispered, squeezing him a little tighter.
"Good," he responded, and one of his hands trailed up her back to tangle in the ends of her long hair. "Like always. But what are you doin' up, love?"
Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she fisted her hands in the back of his jumper. "Missed ya this week."
It was true. All week, meetings and promotion for The Last Post had occupied the window of time in which they normally saw one another, and so apart from a few early morning cuddles and sleepy cups of tea before she had to rush to the museum, they had hardly seen one another. By Thursday she was missing him so keenly it was like a chronic ache, a loneliness that had wormed its way into her heart to fill the gaps left by him. So when he called her earlier that day in the small break he had between the two Saturday performances, his voice low and tired, to tell her how much he was looking forward to spending all day with her tomorrow, she resolutely decided to wait up.
"Missed you, too," he muttered, cradling her face between his cold hands to give her a soft, open-mouthed kiss that had her rising to her tiptoes to meet him better.
Only their soft breathing echoed through the flat, almost sensual, and so when she pulled away, her pulse thrummed under her skin. She breathlessly said, "I want to have sex."
He let out a quick, surprised laugh as he started to walk them across the flat to the bedroom, still wrapped up in one another's arms. But when she kissed his neck, he squirmed away with a low groan, and whispered, "I'm knackered, love. What about mornin' sex? Warm and cozy, and then I'll make breakfast."
"Please, Tom," she whispered, latching the door behind them as the desire she'd been fighting all day built inside her, made her heart race and her face flush. She twisted her fingers together in front of her. "We don't have to if you're really that tired, but we haven't since Sunday, and I just..."
