Joe and JoJo Davies were lying in bed on their backs. JoJo had her head in the crook of his arm and she was leaning lightly into his body, resting against him. Joe’s arm, the one under her, squeezed gently; his fingers caressed her upper arm. His eyes were closed. He was devoting himself to feeling the weight of her head against his shoulder, the warmth of her body against his, her gentle breathing next to his. He didn’t want to know her thoughts; he didn’t want to know his own; he just wanted her there.

“You tired?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer at first. In a minute they might make love. Or they might not. He was tired. But he wouldn’t mind making love. If they didn’t, that would be all right, too. Eventually he would have to move his arm, else it would fall asleep. Eventually he would have to answer. “Pretty tired,” he might say. It was the truth. But even if he answered “pretty tired” he might turn towards her, kiss her nose, her eyes, her mouth, and the movement of her body then would tell him her mood. He thought of the ways her body would tell him. Not something he could put into words. Not something he could describe—oh, the indescribable but palpable ways of her want. He would just know. The shift of her hips. The parting of her lips. The heat of her kiss. The push and pull of her palms. The lift of her leg. The lewd grip of her eyes. Her throat angling upward, exposing itself, asking for his mouth. Thinking about it made him want her a little bit, made him want that moment when it was clear she wanted him, but he teased himself by waiting, by not saying anything. For now, he was content with the quiet. And the fact of her next to him. Peace subdued anticipation. For now.