He's in no hurry, and is quite enjoying the anticipation, in a masochistic kind of way. His lips brush along her neck, kiss under her ear, revelling in the quiet flare of arousal that's become familiar over the years working with her. It's different from the angry chemistry of their fights, or the silent anguish of knowing he'd never get her. It's familiar because while the moments of unacknowledged intimacy were rare, he remembers all of them, has them imprinted on his memory.

His hands drop away, but one finds hers and catches her fingers.

'C'mon then.'

He flicks the TV off, and leads her to bed in the dark.