[ They're words he's heard before — sometimes with the same words prompting them, though certainly never in the same tone, a realization that catches and passes quickly enough — but never in this context. Never from the context of a real relationship, anything lasting longer than a single night. She says you, and he feels an ache in the trellis of his ribcage, something he'd laugh off under any other circumstances but, here, prompts a soft sigh, an admission of that confession's effect. (And has he ever received the question in return?)

For just a fraction of a second, as she settles back against the grass, there's an almost dangerously unguarded look on his face — his eyes wide, searching, unmoored. That expression changes in the next second, colored by endearment and desire as he looks at her, takes in the way want unspools the careful self-control that seems to come so naturally to her otherwise. He likes that — it only makes him want to tug on that thread, to see her come totally undone. A part of the give and take, he supposes, that they should drop all of the pretenses they'd held up to each other, the act of pretending they're something else (something stronger, less vulnerable) easier to drop given all they've discovered about themselves since first falling from that nautiloid.

What he'd imagined, when they'd still been in their respective tents, hadn't even come close to how perfect she looks to him now. His lips curl in a smile as her tongue finds the pad of his finger, his gaze flickering, darkening. ]

When I dream of you, [ he begins, his voice just a murmur as he leans down to press a kiss to her forehead, ] my dreams begin with your hand in mine. [ A kiss upon her cheek. ] With you, already in my arms. [ Then upon the other.

There's that ache, again. There are things he could say — has said — that he thinks would better fit the bill of what such a question generally begs as an answer, but— ]

There's nothing that can touch me, but you. Nothing that I want to touch me, but you.

[ His other knee nudges hers apart — an invitation offered and accepted, his hips settling against the rise of hers. ]

In fact, I'd say my dreams play out— quite like this. But what I can dream up— [ his hand travels down her side, tracing the dip of her waist ] —can hardly compare to the real you.