. . . Ah, Winter. How simple you make it sound. As easy as you and I taking a stroll through the gardens, the way you put it.

I want—so very much. I want to think it can be, even if it cannot be easy.

[They're so close; Nikolas has been aware of that all this time, of course, but a sudden deeper awareness sinks in on a bone and muscle sort of level, warming him. He turns his face to press his lips to Winter's forehead, arms tightening just a bit, and holds him there.]

Here we are unable even to make it to a bed, you see.