Veronica leaves the window as it is and slides in beside him, feeling the flesh of his chest still warm with sleep against her back. She takes his right hand in her own and settles it between her breasts, picking up the beat of his pulse. She shuts her eyes and goes to work on snowdrifts and pond ice and birches.
Harley covers the little rise of her belly with his left hand and for once her head isn't full of her body's imperfections, she doesn't even fidget, just lies there feeling fine. He kisses the cool mass of hair along her nape and she rolls her hips gently, feeling him stir through the fabric of the skirt. It's a thought, but nobody's in a hurry.
Watch closely, angels: this is one of those impossible moments, deceptively quiet but oh so far from equilibrium. It can't last and they know it. They don't care. They're at peace.