By the time Anne got Augustine to the bed, he was slightly more lucid—still dazed, still heavy-limbed, but not completely lost. She draped a blanket over his shoulders as he sank onto the mattress.
"I am sorry," he murmured. His eyes were on her—tired, glassy, but full of something raw. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Please forgive me."
He reached for her then. His fingers brushed her cheek.
"I forgive you," she said. "Now stop talking. It's late night." She moved around to the other side of the bed and slipped in beside him.
His arms found her beneath the sheets, pulling her against his chest. She nestled close, resting her head just above his heart.
For a while, they remained silent. But then, in the quiet dark, his fingers traced the line of her waist.
Anne shifted slightly to face him. "You are exhausted. You should sleep."
"I don't want to sleep without touching you," he said softly. "I need to feel you."
