In the clearing, light spilled across the moss in golden puddles. The scent of jasmine and some heady purple flower Grace had named weeks ago filled the air. They didn't speak as they sat on the moss. Their hands moved without thought, finding buttons, sliding cloth. Grace leaned over him, eyes glowing with something slow and feral, and Jude let her move as she pleased, his breath catching as her mouth brushed his collarbone.
There was no rush between them. Every movement was familiar and reverent. She knew his sighs; he knew her pauses. He rolled with her, their bodies fitting as they always had, and for a while the island vanished, the watchers vanished, the silence itself melted away.
They lay together after, tangled and breathless, sun-warm and sweat-slick. Grace rested her head on his chest, her fingers tracing small, absent circles against his ribs.
He whispered, "We should do this more often. Just us."
She hummed a response. "It's hard. But we can. We have to want it."
