The room is warm now, and your eyes begin to close. This where you're really living, isn't it. He may leave for those days at a time, you may wake to face those mornings alone; but through those days, from morning till night, from month to month and year to year, there is always in the back of your mind these times: these hours together in the quiet, when all is still and warm. They aren't dreams; they are what's real. They are what you live to wake to.
This stamp of eternity, this time in the firelight, his hands warm as your skin, your skin warm as his hands, stroking through the soft rustle of paper and crackle of logs. Here is where the past fades, where the future won't matter. Here with every slow stroke into peace, every heartbeat where you would pay the same price a thousand times over, here is where you live.