Together, they were in the sunroom, a large, light-filled room at the top of her house. It was positioned so that it caught both the sunrise and the sunset; it looked down into the valley and across the hills to the distant mountains. If you stood in that corner there looking through that window at night you could see the flickering lights of the town down yonder. Over there you got a full view of the stables and adjoining paddocks, by standing here with binoculars you could watch the ducks on the dam.

The room was white-washed and decked out with furniture most suitable for a beach house; light wicker chairs and soft-colored cushions, small tables with magazines in drawers, and a gramophone on a stand with rows of records alongside it. Bamboo blinds stood quietly by the windows, ready to be pulled down at a moment's notice, which would render the room black as black. Bright white lights were around the room, and by some of the chairs were lamp-stands.

It wasn't summer, though, it was winter, and instead of soft breezes and kind sun, rain and wind beat against the glass. The blinds along the wall behind them had been closed, and he was contemplating standing up to close the others, and he would have, if it weren't for her. Her hands tightened unconsciously against his wrist, pulling his arm tighter around her. She breathed out in a sigh and nuzzled her head closer into his chest. Through his fingers he could feel the soft pounding of her heart and the rising of her chest as she slept.

It had started out that they were just sitting, him reading a book, her leaning on his chest marveling at the fury of the weather. She regarded the wind and rain and thunder with an almost holy reverence, and though at his insistence the heater was on and none of the windows were open, he could tell she longed for the cold icy jets of water on her face and the bite of wind through her thin sweater. She was a winter girl, and was longing for the snow. He preferred the indoors in weather like this. He would rather remain safe inside, away from the anger of the weather.

But then time had passed, her muscles had relaxed and he'd looked down to realize she was asleep. With great care he'd turned the last pages in his book, pausing every so often in his reading to look down at her. All he could see from this angle was the tip of her nose and the way her hair waved over her head, and the steady rising of her chest and stomach. As he moved to put the book down on the table by the lounge her eyes fluttered open.

"I'm sorry." He halted, confused, why had she apologized? He put his arm around her and pulled her towards him in forgiveness. With searching fingers her other hand locked around his and pulled that against her stomach. Wrapped up in his arms she nestled her check against his chest and murmured, "is the storm come yet?"

"No, not yet. I'll wake you when it starts to thunder," he assured her, knowing that with him around, she'd sleep deeply enough that the booming noises that this area got so much of would not rouse her. The gentle tick of the clock was overwhelmed by the noise of the wind beating at the trees and crashing against the house.

Consciously he changed his breathing to match hers, and he breathed in slowly and cautiously so as not to wake her. Stroking his fingers against her palm, feeling her weight sink into him, he watched the clouds cluster and darken. The wind dropped in warning of what was to come, and the rain turned into a gentle pattering. Down in the valley the trees had stopped moving entirely. Calmly he waited for the storm, breathing in the scent of her. Only for this did he like the rain.

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