She walks away when the radio turns back to static, but you spend that night and every one after it sitting beside her on the edge of the cot, arm slung low across her back and fingers resting gently on her hip. Because now that you've made that contact, dared to bridge that endless space between you, you can't seem to let it go. These are the silent moments. The weight of her, the touch of her cheek on your shoulder, the pressure of her knee against yours is enough. You only speak from across the table, books and maps between you.

The sunlight begins to fade, but the lantern stays unlit. To move would mean to separate – you to your bunk and her to the cold outside the tent. She shifts cautiously, wraps her fingers around your wrist when you tense, and eases you both down, lying on her side with your hand still grazing her hip. You pull her closer.

You know you can't afford to fall asleep. Someone has to take first watch, and it's only the two of you now. But you can feel the rhythm of her breath in every inch of your body. It slows with her heartbeat to something almost calm.

It seems like she's slipped into sleep, so it surprises you when she shifts in your arms, turns to face you. You take in the despairing look in her eyes, and it surprises you less when she leans in to press her mouth tentatively to yours.

From there, it's quick and quietly frantic. You're standing on the edge of adulthood, both of you, but even as the world forces you over the threshold, you fumble like the teenagers you are. Clothes are left on, shoved out of the way, and sheets tangle around your feet. When you push into her, she cries, and you're not sure if it's because it hurts or because it hurts. You breathe heavy against her neck and pray you don't start crying, too.

When you lean back, she turns away from you again, smoothing her shirt down, and your hand falls to find her hip.

The lantern is still unlit, but the protective spells hold until morning.