Scott walked along, feeling sodden and exhausted from the drenching autumn rain. But whenever Ellen, walking beside him, squeezed his hand or leaned against him as she walked, his mouth went dry and all his exhausted muscles seemed to fill with some energy generated by the dark night. He squeezed back and smiled; the thick woolen hood of her cloak turned towards him slightly, and the corner of her full mouth appeared, smiling that rich smile he'd fallen in love with in just four short days. The corners of his own mouth fell, as he remembered once again that tomorrow she would be going home.

"Decisions, decisions," she said, as they reached the shelter of the cottage's screened porch. "First thing to do is put on the kettle, but for a bath first or some beef stew?" She shrugged off the grey-blue cloak and hung it one of the wooden pegs. He watched the way her hands combed through her dampened curls and he sighed to himself. "I need some warmth, but I'm also so hungry!"

"Why don't we fill the bath first, and let it cool while we make beef stew?" Scott suggested. "That way neither of us has to get scalded."

Ellen turned to him, smiling. "Good plan, King. You make the best plans, you know that?" She opened her arms and hugged him, tightly. He hugged her in return, feeling under his palms the beating of her heart, alive and quick. When the wetness on his neck became warm instead of cold, he knew she was crying, and let her go, to step back and look at her with concern.

"Nothing, I guess," she said, trying to turn her lips back into a smile. "I was just ... thinking that I almost turned down your offer to come here and recuperate. I don't know why --" she broke off and looked away from him, but her hand slipped into his again and pressed.

"I understand," he said, folding his arms around her again, and letting her hair wisp against his lips as he murmured. "I do. I've been there ... to survive the horrible day-to-day -- yes, I do know, l--" he stopped, just short of saying what he had dreamed, afraid, of saying. He felt her cheek pressed against his chest, and wondered if she could hear his heart pounding as loud as it seemed to pound to him each time he looked at her. "I do know," he said, softly. "You have to wall out the hopes that things could ever be better. Because if you didn't, the longing could tear you apart."

She nodded against his chest. "Oh, Scott," was all she said, and her fingers kneaded the flesh of his sides as she let out a long sigh that trembled just a little. He shut his eyes tight, because if he remained able to feel her warmth and softness in his arms, and to smell the delicate scent of her skin, almost close enough to taste, and to see the rich red of her curls turned burnished copper by the rain, the longing would have torn him apart.

When she sighed and stood again, his arms were reluctant to let her go, and he had to force them to give her up. She gave him a brief grin that looked as scared as he knew his own was, and she slipped through the door to the kitchen, whispering the words water and kettle. He sighed and waited to follow her until his heart could obey him better and stop beating so foolishly fast.

"Mmmm," she murmured, leaning back in her chair with her eyes almost shut. Dreamily, her pink tongue-tip came out to lick a tiny tendril of stew from the edge of her lip. "I could have another bowl and be full. But that was so delicious that it's so much more luxurious to stay half-hungry. Does that make sense?"

He nodded. He, too, wanted more of the taste of the warm, rich stew and yet made no attempt to ladle it into his bowl. As long as he could keep away fullness, he could continue to confuse his yearning with hunger. She opened her eyes, and raised her brows at him.

He nodded. "Makes sense," he said. "There's enough there that we can put the rest away and heat it up tomorrow before -- before you go," he finished.

Ellen sat up in the wooden chair. "Well." Her voice seemed introspective, maybe a little distant. "That bath water should be at just the right temperature -- I hope." She stood up. "Should I wash the dishes before..."

"No," he said, "I'll do them. Have something to do while you're in there. In the bath." As he spoke, one of his dream images of her floated into his mind, and he hoped that he kept the flush away from his cheeks. "Go. Ah, you go. I'll take care of the -- dishes."

He sighed when she had left the room. Smooth talker, you, he thought. You might as well just have painted it neon on yourself. All through the five-day vacation, he had needed to say it to her but couldn't find the words, and had told himself that the time had not yet come, had not yet come. And now, it seemed that somehow the time had passed, yet he could not say when that time had been. When should he have told her? If he should have told her? And what should he have told her?

"Ellen," he tried, a little falteringly in the silence of the kitchen. "Ellen, I..." He stopped again. "For such a long time I've been ... for so long I've needed..."

He stopped, before he could sound ludicrous or even false to his own ears. What had he himself said? That you locked away all those things that might be, before they could make it impossible to live with what had to be. What could be more natural, then ... what could make more sense ... than to pack them up like your sleeping bag and toothbrush, pack them away, tidy and neat. He sighed and let his head slump forward until his forehead rested on the faucet that only poured cold water.

"Scott?" Her voice echoed oddly from down the hall.

"Yes?" He straightened up and shook the water from his hands.