A room ... kitchen ... low lit. Outside, dusk, and quiet, falls.

He stands at the sink; the overhead light throws shadows across his lowered face as he concentrates on a slippery balance of errand and reverie. Sleeves rolled, his forearms are submerged in soapy, tepid liquid; as they shift, there is the gentle clinking of glass and metal amidst the sloshing water. He hums softly to complement the fluid tune.

His head itches; he sweeps up a dripping hand to scratch, obliviously sculpturing half his hair into a haphazard lick. I cannot stop my smile. He hears me move towards him.

He keeps on, until my hands snake out from under his arms; one wraps over his shoulder, and the other rests on his left breast. His heart beats against the press of my palm, and mine against his back. His eyes hold mine in the mirror opposite as I rest my chin on his shoulder. The water music continues.

My breaths come slow and steady. The rushes of air dance over the naked nape of his neck; the tiny hairs rise and stand on end. He shivers a little, and his tremor runs through my entire body.