Fic: The Sounding Joy
Title: The Sounding Joy
Author: jadeddiva
Warning and Rating: PG-13ish for drunken behavior
Prompts: a card or board game and the last five stanzas of ‘Joy to the World’
Word Count: 2532
Summary: He calls her name but she says nothing, and hopes that he will walk away, but it is easier said than done, these things. During HBP, Tonks finds things are easier said than done, especially during the Christmas season.
Author’s Notes: This started off Christmas-y and ended up New Years-y. This is what happens when I slack off ;) Concrit welcome and encouraged.
Everyone says it’s easier said than done, which she guess makes sense when it comes to things like love and romance and vengeance and retaliation, though she’s never been one to let things linger for too long. Swift, easy, stealthy - words to live by for Nymphadora Tonks. Gather up your wits and your strength, make a mad dash for it, and if, by some happy coincidence, you don’t end up on your arse, you’re better off then, right?
Right.
Whoever says that stuff is full of shite and whoever encouraged it should be hung by their toenails from the belfry of the highest bell tower in the hopes that they will have learned their lesson.
She presses her head against the back of the closed door, face burning in utter mortification. He had - it has seemed like a good idea at the time - it was so much easier said than done in her head - oh, god what had she done?
Whatever calm and rationale part of her brain - the part that screamed out ‘it was just a peck on the cheek, it meant nothing’ - was in the process of being overwhelmed entirely by the pounding of her heart and the light rapping on the door.
He calls her name but she says nothing, and hopes that he will walk away, but it is easier said than done, these things.
…
The holiday season at Hogsmeade can best be described by saying that Christmas threw up on the small village. Every square inch is decorated with boughs of holly and ivy, red ribbon and bells. There are flashing lights, charmed to blink obnoxiously and sing the chorus of popular Christmas songs when people near the shops (the ones that are open, at least).
If anything, it feels as if everyone is over-compensating for the fear that seems to engulf this town every time a shop closes or a family moves away. Proximity to Hogwarts is nothing if Hogsmeade could be the gateway of You Know Who.
Tonks draws her overcoat tighter, grateful for the new muffler and hat that Molly sent her for Christmas. All around her, the wind whips up freshly-fallen snow and she squints as the cold wetness brushes against her face. The carolers on the corner, the ones that are there every year, struggle in the wind, one of them losing her songsheet but it’s not like the song is new, so she just continues, “Repeat the sounding joy, repeat the sounding joy, repeat! repeat! the sounding joy-”
For all her gloom, she does think that Hogsmeade is rather lovely this time of year. She always enjoyed Christmas when she was a child, but it’s been hard to find any sort of excitement this year, after all that’s happened. Her heart feels cold and shriveled up like coal and she has finished her rounds for the moment. It is the day before Christmas eve, and nothing sounds as good as hot chocolate with a generous drop of Kiss Me! Irish Fix-It-All liquor which Alberforth keeps just for her.
That night, she plays a hand of Exploding Snap with Rowena Proudfoot while Savage and Dawlish patrol.
“Any holiday plans?” Rowena asks, picking a card up from the pile. Tonks shrugs.
“Not really,” she says. “Christmas dinner with my parents. I’ve got morning patrol.”
“Fuck.” The card pile explodes meekly on the table. “This pack’s old,” Rowena grumbles. “I’ve got evening patrol.”
“Going home?” she asks, refilling their glasses of Firewhiskey.
“Yeah,” Rowena says, abandoning the game in light of a fresh glass. “I’ve got five siblings, and Mum’s quite the baker. She’s been worried for ages about having enough food.”
“You’ll bring back some biscuits, won’t you?” Tonks says with a smile.
“Of course. How ‘bout you - got a big family?” Rowena asks. Tonks shakes her head.
“Nah, just my parents and me - I mean, there’s my Da’s side but they’re up north and we’re too lazy to Floo there. So it’ll just be us.”
“Cozy,” Rowena says, pulling out a fag, and the image of Grimmauld Place, full of Order members and Weasleys and Harry and Hermione floats through Tonks’ mind. She shakes her head again, and it disappears into the mist.
“Yeah,” she says, thinking now of her parents small home. “Cozy.”
…
Molly had sent her Christmas presents early, including a note along with the gift. If you’re not doing anything and would like to join us for Christmas dinner, I know we would all appreciate the pleasure of your company.
Tonks knew perfectly well who would be at Christmas dinner: the Weasley clans, Fleur Delacoeur, maybe Mad-Eye and Kingsley and definitely - oh, most definitely - Remus.
She replied tersely Have family plans, but thanks. Happy Christmas - perhaps New Years?
Despite the lingering temptation, despite her own yearning, she knew it would be impossible to come to Molly’s on Christmas. It tore her heart out to see Remus at meeting; being seated at a table with him during what should be considered a happy holiday was easier said than done.
Her actions could be seen as immature, or preventive, but it was Christmas and was it really too much to ask to not spend it feeing like your heart was being ripped out over and over again?
She was not going to be the girl outside the shop window, drooling over all the pretty candies inside and knowing they would only make her sick. That’s what it was - a sickness, from too many good things all at once.
…
Christmas dinner is lovely, though quiet, with just her parents and the cat. She plays with her potatoes and thinks of Molly’s meal, complete with several types of pudding and laughter. She thinks of dinner at Grimmauld Place last year, of the feeling of inclusion and happiness that came from being surrounded by so many people. She thinks of Sirius, too, his smiling face in the midst of all the chaos, speeding past other memories she doesn’t want to deal with today.
“What’s wrong, love?” her father asks, cutting through her daydream. She clears her through.
“Just thinking about Sirius,” she says, grateful that her parents know he died a free man. “He was so happy last year.”
Dinner ends on that somber note, when Andromeda whisks the dishes away into the kitchen with a flick of her wand, her lips set in a grim line.
After dinner, they drink liquors and marvel at their presents. Her parents have given her warm clothes and a lovely new Auror-standard cloak, as well as some sweets and money to buy new boots. It’s a nice Christmas, all things considered, and she cannot help but feel satisfied, given the circumstances.
She returns to Hogsmeade early, since she has another morning patrol, to be greeted by Saveage and some strong punch he’s made for the occasion. She’s not tired yet, so she opens up the biscuits her aunt and uncle sent her, and sits them down on the table. They toast to Christmas Spirit, and to the coming year, and to their own safety. The punch burns her throat on the way down.
That night, she lets herself miss Remus. She remembers what he gave her last year - gloves, because she always loses hers - and she remembers the early, innocent days of their friendship. She misses the feel of his hand in hers, his easy smile across a crowded room, the easiness of being together. She does not miss anything that has happened in the past several months, and if she can just hold on to the good, maybe things will be better. Maybe next year will be better. Maybe.
The thought doesn’t make it any easier to get to sleep.
…
On Boxing Day, the people of Hogsmeade bring the Aurors food, hats, scarves, and other presents to thank them for their protection. Dawlish, being the anal-retentive asshole that he is, subjects the gives to a barrage of spells to prove that the gifts are not charmed or Dark Objects of anything else that would possibly harm them (they aren’t, and no one says anything because better safe than sorry).
Madam Rosmerta holds a lovely meal for them and afterwards, in what could be considered negligence, they sit at a table in her empty pub with a chess board and a pack of cards. Tonks challenges Savage to a game of Wizard Chess while Rowena plays Solitaire and Dawlish tries to charm Rosmerta with one of his epic stories of daring (which aren’t that daring and are rather boring, to be honest).
“Check,” Savage says, moving his knight opposite Tonks’ king. Rowena flips a card over and moves it to a pile. Tonks captures Savage’s knight with her queen, who proceeds to throw it across the room. It lands on the floor and whimpers, and Tonks can’t help but laugh. It’s the first time she’s really laughed in ages and it feels good, in the midst of this war, to feel something like happiness.
She hums the Christmas song that’s been stuck in her head, singing the last stanzas aloud, “Repeat, repeat, the sounding joy,” with a smile on her lips.
…
An owl comes on the fourth day of Christmas. It’s from Molly, inviting her for tea tomorrow. Its code for an Order meeting, and Tonks must come. She has nothing new to report, but is curious if there are any new developments, particular with the werewolves. She wonders if Remus will be there, and decides probably not, so it might be safe. As if by magic, she’s not on the patrol schedule that day, so she’s free to go.
The next afternoon, she stomps the snow off her boots and calls out to be let in. She’s eager to see Molly and give everyone Christmas wishes. Tonks is surprised when Ginny responds and asks her about dingbombs. Harry and Ginny are eating sandwiches at the table, and they wish her a happy Christmas and quickly leave the room. Harry lingers, looking as if he wants to say something, but Molly bustles in.
“Tonks! Dear Tonks! We are so happy you’re here,” she says loudly - deliberately - and Tonks’ stomach sinks. There is only one reason to be this obvious, and that reason slinks into the kitchen behind Molly.
“Happy Christmas, Tonks,” Remus says, hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorway and - oh Merlin - he looks worse than he did last month. She looks away.
She manages a shaky smile. “Hello, Remus,” she says. “Happy Christmas.” The room is so full of tension she can barely breathe.
Mad-Eye enters the house then, answering the security question, and it’s easier to breathe again. She finds a seat at the table, and Remus sits at the other end. She doesn’t look, despite the fact she wants to, instead focusing on Mad-Eye’s Christmas gift: strong mead.
There is nothing new to report, and it occurs to Tonks that this is just an opportunity for Order members to get together and discuss things. She is annoyed but pacified Molly’s excellent cooking and the quality of the mead. She even agrees to stay the night, though she’s not quite sure where she’s agreed to stay but she sends the owl off with no regrets. (None of this has anything to do with her desire to linger, to stay longer for the sake of the company, which she hates herself for feeling).
Arthur keeps them enthralled with stories about his years tracking down misused Muggle artifacts, and Mad-Eye adds his fair share, and she can’t help but smile and laugh as the stories get more and more ridiculous and the mead continues to flow.
“Does this bottle ever end?” she asks Mad-Eye, leaning her head against the table and eyeing it cautiously.
“Charmed it myself,” he says with a wink.
“Merlin, don’t do that,” she says. “That eye bothers me.”
From his end of the table, Remus chuckles, and she can’t help put look at him for a moment, realizing she’s lingering too long, and hears movement. His eyes stay on her, and behind her people leave, and she knows it’s just them, at the table, alone.
“More?” he asks, and she nods. He pours more into her glass, and she takes a slow sip, feeling dizzy. It’s the wine, it’s the man, it’s the room, it’s everything. She edges closer, even though she shouldn’t.
He does the same. Soon, his fingers are touching hers, tracing patterns from her knuckle to her fingertips and she feels warm all over. She misses this so much, this touch and feel, and she leans forward and presses a kiss against his cheek.
Oh Merlin.
It’s as if she’s been doused by cold water, or given a Sober Up! potion - the minute her lips brush against his cheek, she immediately regrets it.
…
“Dora, please let me in before Molly starts to ask questions.”
She knows he’s right and so she stands up, opens the door, and lets him in. It’s awkward - whatever spell they were under at the table has been broken, and instead of two people in love they are two people on opposite sides of the world, with the space between them.
Tonks sits on the bed, and Remus leans against the wall. A simple charm, and no one can hear their conversation.
She twists her hands; she’s not sure if she wants to talk, but she might as well.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It was the mead.”
“Excellent stuff,” Remus says with a small smile. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “It wasn’t just the mead.”
“I really shouldn’t be around you,” she says. “I do stupid things.”
He sighs. “It’s all my fault - ”
“Don’t start that again,” she says with a sigh, falling back onto the bed. She’s drunk on alcohol and his proximity, tired from the constant war of her heart and her head and his constant self-pity and self-deprecation.
“Maybe,” he says softly, so soft she doesn’t think she hears it at first, “maybe we can pretend. For one night,” he clarifies, as she sits up and raises an eyebrow, “Do you mind if I sit down next to you?”
She shakes her head now, laying down on top of the covers. He lays down next to her, hand on her hip, and she turns her head into him. She presses her nose against his collar bone (it’s too protruding, he’s too thin) and inhales him, which is so comforting after all these months.
“Repeat, repeat the sounding joy,” she murmurs against his neck and he laughs at her random outburst.
“It’s almost midnight, isn’t it?” she asks.
“Near enough,” he tells her.
“My grandmother always said that what happens on New Years Eve foreshadows what will happen in the coming year,” she says. “Maybe…?”
It’s too much to hope, but she hopes anyway because something needs to get her through the next year, and it won’t be the warm body next to her.
He kisses her forehead. “Maybe,” he tells her, though they both know that all of this is easier said that done.
Author: jadeddiva
Warning and Rating: PG-13ish for drunken behavior
Prompts: a card or board game and the last five stanzas of ‘Joy to the World’
Word Count: 2532
Summary: He calls her name but she says nothing, and hopes that he will walk away, but it is easier said than done, these things. During HBP, Tonks finds things are easier said than done, especially during the Christmas season.
Author’s Notes: This started off Christmas-y and ended up New Years-y. This is what happens when I slack off ;) Concrit welcome and encouraged.
Everyone says it’s easier said than done, which she guess makes sense when it comes to things like love and romance and vengeance and retaliation, though she’s never been one to let things linger for too long. Swift, easy, stealthy - words to live by for Nymphadora Tonks. Gather up your wits and your strength, make a mad dash for it, and if, by some happy coincidence, you don’t end up on your arse, you’re better off then, right?
Right.
Whoever says that stuff is full of shite and whoever encouraged it should be hung by their toenails from the belfry of the highest bell tower in the hopes that they will have learned their lesson.
She presses her head against the back of the closed door, face burning in utter mortification. He had - it has seemed like a good idea at the time - it was so much easier said than done in her head - oh, god what had she done?
Whatever calm and rationale part of her brain - the part that screamed out ‘it was just a peck on the cheek, it meant nothing’ - was in the process of being overwhelmed entirely by the pounding of her heart and the light rapping on the door.
He calls her name but she says nothing, and hopes that he will walk away, but it is easier said than done, these things.
…
The holiday season at Hogsmeade can best be described by saying that Christmas threw up on the small village. Every square inch is decorated with boughs of holly and ivy, red ribbon and bells. There are flashing lights, charmed to blink obnoxiously and sing the chorus of popular Christmas songs when people near the shops (the ones that are open, at least).
If anything, it feels as if everyone is over-compensating for the fear that seems to engulf this town every time a shop closes or a family moves away. Proximity to Hogwarts is nothing if Hogsmeade could be the gateway of You Know Who.
Tonks draws her overcoat tighter, grateful for the new muffler and hat that Molly sent her for Christmas. All around her, the wind whips up freshly-fallen snow and she squints as the cold wetness brushes against her face. The carolers on the corner, the ones that are there every year, struggle in the wind, one of them losing her songsheet but it’s not like the song is new, so she just continues, “Repeat the sounding joy, repeat the sounding joy, repeat! repeat! the sounding joy-”
For all her gloom, she does think that Hogsmeade is rather lovely this time of year. She always enjoyed Christmas when she was a child, but it’s been hard to find any sort of excitement this year, after all that’s happened. Her heart feels cold and shriveled up like coal and she has finished her rounds for the moment. It is the day before Christmas eve, and nothing sounds as good as hot chocolate with a generous drop of Kiss Me! Irish Fix-It-All liquor which Alberforth keeps just for her.
That night, she plays a hand of Exploding Snap with Rowena Proudfoot while Savage and Dawlish patrol.
“Any holiday plans?” Rowena asks, picking a card up from the pile. Tonks shrugs.
“Not really,” she says. “Christmas dinner with my parents. I’ve got morning patrol.”
“Fuck.” The card pile explodes meekly on the table. “This pack’s old,” Rowena grumbles. “I’ve got evening patrol.”
“Going home?” she asks, refilling their glasses of Firewhiskey.
“Yeah,” Rowena says, abandoning the game in light of a fresh glass. “I’ve got five siblings, and Mum’s quite the baker. She’s been worried for ages about having enough food.”
“You’ll bring back some biscuits, won’t you?” Tonks says with a smile.
“Of course. How ‘bout you - got a big family?” Rowena asks. Tonks shakes her head.
“Nah, just my parents and me - I mean, there’s my Da’s side but they’re up north and we’re too lazy to Floo there. So it’ll just be us.”
“Cozy,” Rowena says, pulling out a fag, and the image of Grimmauld Place, full of Order members and Weasleys and Harry and Hermione floats through Tonks’ mind. She shakes her head again, and it disappears into the mist.
“Yeah,” she says, thinking now of her parents small home. “Cozy.”
…
Molly had sent her Christmas presents early, including a note along with the gift. If you’re not doing anything and would like to join us for Christmas dinner, I know we would all appreciate the pleasure of your company.
Tonks knew perfectly well who would be at Christmas dinner: the Weasley clans, Fleur Delacoeur, maybe Mad-Eye and Kingsley and definitely - oh, most definitely - Remus.
She replied tersely Have family plans, but thanks. Happy Christmas - perhaps New Years?
Despite the lingering temptation, despite her own yearning, she knew it would be impossible to come to Molly’s on Christmas. It tore her heart out to see Remus at meeting; being seated at a table with him during what should be considered a happy holiday was easier said than done.
Her actions could be seen as immature, or preventive, but it was Christmas and was it really too much to ask to not spend it feeing like your heart was being ripped out over and over again?
She was not going to be the girl outside the shop window, drooling over all the pretty candies inside and knowing they would only make her sick. That’s what it was - a sickness, from too many good things all at once.
…
Christmas dinner is lovely, though quiet, with just her parents and the cat. She plays with her potatoes and thinks of Molly’s meal, complete with several types of pudding and laughter. She thinks of dinner at Grimmauld Place last year, of the feeling of inclusion and happiness that came from being surrounded by so many people. She thinks of Sirius, too, his smiling face in the midst of all the chaos, speeding past other memories she doesn’t want to deal with today.
“What’s wrong, love?” her father asks, cutting through her daydream. She clears her through.
“Just thinking about Sirius,” she says, grateful that her parents know he died a free man. “He was so happy last year.”
Dinner ends on that somber note, when Andromeda whisks the dishes away into the kitchen with a flick of her wand, her lips set in a grim line.
After dinner, they drink liquors and marvel at their presents. Her parents have given her warm clothes and a lovely new Auror-standard cloak, as well as some sweets and money to buy new boots. It’s a nice Christmas, all things considered, and she cannot help but feel satisfied, given the circumstances.
She returns to Hogsmeade early, since she has another morning patrol, to be greeted by Saveage and some strong punch he’s made for the occasion. She’s not tired yet, so she opens up the biscuits her aunt and uncle sent her, and sits them down on the table. They toast to Christmas Spirit, and to the coming year, and to their own safety. The punch burns her throat on the way down.
That night, she lets herself miss Remus. She remembers what he gave her last year - gloves, because she always loses hers - and she remembers the early, innocent days of their friendship. She misses the feel of his hand in hers, his easy smile across a crowded room, the easiness of being together. She does not miss anything that has happened in the past several months, and if she can just hold on to the good, maybe things will be better. Maybe next year will be better. Maybe.
The thought doesn’t make it any easier to get to sleep.
…
On Boxing Day, the people of Hogsmeade bring the Aurors food, hats, scarves, and other presents to thank them for their protection. Dawlish, being the anal-retentive asshole that he is, subjects the gives to a barrage of spells to prove that the gifts are not charmed or Dark Objects of anything else that would possibly harm them (they aren’t, and no one says anything because better safe than sorry).
Madam Rosmerta holds a lovely meal for them and afterwards, in what could be considered negligence, they sit at a table in her empty pub with a chess board and a pack of cards. Tonks challenges Savage to a game of Wizard Chess while Rowena plays Solitaire and Dawlish tries to charm Rosmerta with one of his epic stories of daring (which aren’t that daring and are rather boring, to be honest).
“Check,” Savage says, moving his knight opposite Tonks’ king. Rowena flips a card over and moves it to a pile. Tonks captures Savage’s knight with her queen, who proceeds to throw it across the room. It lands on the floor and whimpers, and Tonks can’t help but laugh. It’s the first time she’s really laughed in ages and it feels good, in the midst of this war, to feel something like happiness.
She hums the Christmas song that’s been stuck in her head, singing the last stanzas aloud, “Repeat, repeat, the sounding joy,” with a smile on her lips.
…
An owl comes on the fourth day of Christmas. It’s from Molly, inviting her for tea tomorrow. Its code for an Order meeting, and Tonks must come. She has nothing new to report, but is curious if there are any new developments, particular with the werewolves. She wonders if Remus will be there, and decides probably not, so it might be safe. As if by magic, she’s not on the patrol schedule that day, so she’s free to go.
The next afternoon, she stomps the snow off her boots and calls out to be let in. She’s eager to see Molly and give everyone Christmas wishes. Tonks is surprised when Ginny responds and asks her about dingbombs. Harry and Ginny are eating sandwiches at the table, and they wish her a happy Christmas and quickly leave the room. Harry lingers, looking as if he wants to say something, but Molly bustles in.
“Tonks! Dear Tonks! We are so happy you’re here,” she says loudly - deliberately - and Tonks’ stomach sinks. There is only one reason to be this obvious, and that reason slinks into the kitchen behind Molly.
“Happy Christmas, Tonks,” Remus says, hands in his pockets, leaning against the doorway and - oh Merlin - he looks worse than he did last month. She looks away.
She manages a shaky smile. “Hello, Remus,” she says. “Happy Christmas.” The room is so full of tension she can barely breathe.
Mad-Eye enters the house then, answering the security question, and it’s easier to breathe again. She finds a seat at the table, and Remus sits at the other end. She doesn’t look, despite the fact she wants to, instead focusing on Mad-Eye’s Christmas gift: strong mead.
There is nothing new to report, and it occurs to Tonks that this is just an opportunity for Order members to get together and discuss things. She is annoyed but pacified Molly’s excellent cooking and the quality of the mead. She even agrees to stay the night, though she’s not quite sure where she’s agreed to stay but she sends the owl off with no regrets. (None of this has anything to do with her desire to linger, to stay longer for the sake of the company, which she hates herself for feeling).
Arthur keeps them enthralled with stories about his years tracking down misused Muggle artifacts, and Mad-Eye adds his fair share, and she can’t help but smile and laugh as the stories get more and more ridiculous and the mead continues to flow.
“Does this bottle ever end?” she asks Mad-Eye, leaning her head against the table and eyeing it cautiously.
“Charmed it myself,” he says with a wink.
“Merlin, don’t do that,” she says. “That eye bothers me.”
From his end of the table, Remus chuckles, and she can’t help put look at him for a moment, realizing she’s lingering too long, and hears movement. His eyes stay on her, and behind her people leave, and she knows it’s just them, at the table, alone.
“More?” he asks, and she nods. He pours more into her glass, and she takes a slow sip, feeling dizzy. It’s the wine, it’s the man, it’s the room, it’s everything. She edges closer, even though she shouldn’t.
He does the same. Soon, his fingers are touching hers, tracing patterns from her knuckle to her fingertips and she feels warm all over. She misses this so much, this touch and feel, and she leans forward and presses a kiss against his cheek.
Oh Merlin.
It’s as if she’s been doused by cold water, or given a Sober Up! potion - the minute her lips brush against his cheek, she immediately regrets it.
…
“Dora, please let me in before Molly starts to ask questions.”
She knows he’s right and so she stands up, opens the door, and lets him in. It’s awkward - whatever spell they were under at the table has been broken, and instead of two people in love they are two people on opposite sides of the world, with the space between them.
Tonks sits on the bed, and Remus leans against the wall. A simple charm, and no one can hear their conversation.
She twists her hands; she’s not sure if she wants to talk, but she might as well.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It was the mead.”
“Excellent stuff,” Remus says with a small smile. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “It wasn’t just the mead.”
“I really shouldn’t be around you,” she says. “I do stupid things.”
He sighs. “It’s all my fault - ”
“Don’t start that again,” she says with a sigh, falling back onto the bed. She’s drunk on alcohol and his proximity, tired from the constant war of her heart and her head and his constant self-pity and self-deprecation.
“Maybe,” he says softly, so soft she doesn’t think she hears it at first, “maybe we can pretend. For one night,” he clarifies, as she sits up and raises an eyebrow, “Do you mind if I sit down next to you?”
She shakes her head now, laying down on top of the covers. He lays down next to her, hand on her hip, and she turns her head into him. She presses her nose against his collar bone (it’s too protruding, he’s too thin) and inhales him, which is so comforting after all these months.
“Repeat, repeat the sounding joy,” she murmurs against his neck and he laughs at her random outburst.
“It’s almost midnight, isn’t it?” she asks.
“Near enough,” he tells her.
“My grandmother always said that what happens on New Years Eve foreshadows what will happen in the coming year,” she says. “Maybe…?”
It’s too much to hope, but she hopes anyway because something needs to get her through the next year, and it won’t be the warm body next to her.
He kisses her forehead. “Maybe,” he tells her, though they both know that all of this is easier said that done.