She could wake up to him every morning.

That wasn't really anything new or noteworthy--she'd woken up to him almost every morning for forty years, so it would hardly be a surprise to anyone. Zora wasn't the type for stupid sentimental things very often, she didn't like sappy cards or chick flicks. She was, quite frankly, devoid of affection for the most part. But mornings like this made her that way; made her feel stupidly affectionate about him, even when she shouldn't, because she was never going to get any of that back.

Mornings like this--this was her favourite. Those quiet moments--or if she was lucky, minutes--in which she was awake, and he wasn't, and she could lie there, curled up under the sheets and the comforter and watch him sleep. And everything was quiet, and nothing was being fought over or in turmoil. In a few minutes, usually less, he would roll over, and he would pull over all her blankets to himself, because he was a selfish bastard like that, and she would pull them back, and he'd wake up for real, and the day would start, just like that. They would have to get up, and put proper clothes on, and drink coffee and go out into the great wide world.

But not yet. For now, she had him all to herself. She didn't have to share him with anyone, not even himself.

It was that stupid sense of affection that made her reach out and brush his hair off his forehead, which was ultimately her undoing, as he began moving before she even drew her hand away properly. Zora propped her head up as he shifted, allowing herself a smile as a heavy arm landed around her waist and dragged her in. He mumbled something, and she leaned in and kissed him in response. He was still hers, with quiet desparation in moments like this, he still belonged to her, and she didn't have to share him with anyone at all.