She can't control when inspiration strikes, though she can mildly curse it when it finds her sated and warm in the arms of the man she loves, the handwraps he hadn't taken the time to remove the night before deliciously rough against her skin. She extricates herself from his embrace slowly, careful not to wake him, then dresses and takes a seat at the desk across the room, where she tries to capture the feelings that tumble through her mind and her heart, in words that she may never share but cannot possibly contain.
Later, as the first rays of sun cascade through the window, she hears him stir. She listens as he dresses, unable to resist casting an appreciative glance over her shoulder. He doesn't notice; instead, he wordlessly goes into the kitchen and returns, minutes later, a steaming mug in each hand. He sets one down beside her and kisses her cheek.
"Morning," he says. "Inspiration struck fierce, huh?"
"You know you have that effect on me."
"What, last night?" He cocks an eyebrow and crooked grin. "Should I be worried?"
"Not at all." She leans back, smiles up at him, and winks. "I never kiss and tell."