"Well, that was…a rather bold move."

She giggled, remembering their conversation earlier in the week. "Are you all right?"

"Uh-huh. You?"

She turned her head on the pillow and gazed at him, taking him in: flushed, breathless, hair mussed from her fingers, and grinning from ear to ear. They hadn't even bothered to completely undress this time; his shirt still hung on his shoulders and her slip was pushed at an odd angle up around her waist.

Slowly, she smiled back at him, grasped his hand at her side and brought it to her lips, kissing his palm.

"Perfectly."

The evening had started like any other: dinner, followed by Patrick coaching Timothy through the rest of his math homework, while she finished the washing up. Then Timothy had his bath and went to bed (of course after protesting to stay up "just five more minutes" at least twice) and she and Patrick settled into their comfortable nightly routine. She might sew or go over some new sheet music for the choir, while he read and polished Timothy's braces. They talked about their days – Patrick's worries over a patient, her struggles with the still tiny choir, the latest gossip from Nonnatus house – until one of them yawned or remembered to look at the clock, realized the late hour and decided to go to bed.

Only tonight, Shelagh didn't feel tired – not at all. As much as she tried to concentrate on the sheet music in her lap, the melody in her head kept turning into the sound of his voice, whispering in her ear, and her eyes wandered to her husband, his dark head bent over a book. He was sitting right next to her – mere inches between them – but apart from a kiss on the cheek when he'd come home, he hadn't touched her all night.

He'd always been careful not to push her, but even more so since the operation. She was grateful for it at first. They'd both needed their time to grieve and to heal and look for new roads to happiness.

But lately all she wanted was to be close, as close as possible to the man she loved. This man, with his caring hands and warm kisses; this man, who could look at her and make her knees go so weak with love and want, it was amazing to Shelagh sometimes how she made it through days at the office without pulling him into a corner and showing him exactly how she felt.

She'd kissed him, the other day, quite boldly and unexpectedly, as they were leaving the clinic. There was no one else around, but showing affection in public, beyond sidelong smiles and winks, wasn't something they did very often. Shelagh didn't really know what had come over her – she'd just had to kiss him at that moment. But Patrick hadn't seemed to mind, kissing her back and keeping her hand in his as they walked home.

But once home, of course, life got in the way. There was dinner and chores and Patrick got late call out to help deliver a set of triplets. He hadn't come to bed until nearly dawn. And he'd been exhausted yesterday, of course, from the lack of sleep.

But tonight? Tonight he must have read that same page in his book at least three times by now.

She set aside her music. "Patrick."

He looked up at the sound of his name, a slight, lopsided grin on his face.

She moved closer, placing a hand on his knee. "It's rather late. I think I'll go to bed."

"All right, love." He leaned in and kissed her softly, as he'd taken to doing of late – gently, never demanding always holding himself in check. She rested her other hand on the back of his neck, and when the kiss ended she left it there, fingertips curling into his hair.

"Come with me?" she asked, bold and shy, and watched his eyes widen with a mix of surprise and desire. It had been a while since they'd done this, and she'd never asked before. So of course he paused. Of course, he waited for her to take the lead.

Well then…she would.