When Jon woke up, he was home.

That in itself was not particularly unusual. There were any number of jobs in the world that might require him to work overnight shifts, or (heaven forbid) spend long periods of time on the road, traveling and sleeping in motels, but Jon Stanford had not yet fallen to such depths. No, his was a normal job, one that made him work a gazillion hours a week and paid for about a quarter of it. With gas prices rising and rent going up too, there were sometimes nightmares of bank statements with enormous overdraft fees. Caitlyn helped, as much as she could, but he was the main breadwinner here, and they both knew it.

The whole world was stress and storm. But, when he woke up, at least he was home.

When Caitlyn had insisted on refitting the bed—a new mattress, discounted at the wholesaler; sheets and a down comforter—he had thought it a needless extravagance. Couldn't the money be better used elsewhere? But she had set him straight: "Jon, we spend a third of our lives in this bed. It might as well be comfortable." And she was right, because now he slept better, awoke feeling more rested. Or, at least, he had; nowadays the memory foam and warm blankets were only enough to compensate for the increased stress. There had been another round of layoffs, and Jon knew his seniority left him vulnerable; he had kept his job by working hard and being reliable, but that just meant a greater outlay of energy—not only because he worked harder than most, but because everyone's responsibilities had expanded. He felt like he was working 15 hours a day instead of 10.

But the greatest and best thing about the bed, the thing that made it home, was not the mattress, nor the sheets, nor the luxuriant warmth. It was the woman in his arms. Wherever Caitlyn was, he was home.

For a moment he just blinked, letting his eyes focus. Jon was not a heavy sleeper, and for almost half a year after their wedding he might wake up two or three times a night, jolted out of slumber by tiny disturbances, like Caitlyn shifting to scratch her arm. The upshot was that once he was awake, he was awake; if a burglar fired a gun here (and, for some reason, failed to hit two sleeping targets), Jon could be up to punch him in a moment, no more impaired than if he had been awake for hours.

The downside was that, once he was awake, he was awake, and there was no going back to sleep.

A glance at the clock showed that he had more than half an hour before the alarm would ring. Outside the window he saw the grey-blue light of predawn. In his arms, Caitlyn still slept, her breath even, her body still. With a sigh, Jon let his head fall, burying his face in her hair.

He couldn't go back to sleep... but there were other, better things to do right now.

For a long time he simply lay there, his eyes closed, their bodies curled together like shrimp on a rack. After half a year he had stopped noticing the novelty of skin on skin, of the softness of her body against his, but as of late he was starting to rediscover it. She used both of their arms as pillows, hooked her other hand around her upper arm. Her breast was firm and warm against his palm; under his fingertips he could feel the beat of her heart, butterfly-faint.

Sometimes he wondered if something was wrong with him. He was lying here sleepless and naked, with (in his opinion) the loveliest woman alive also naked and asleep in his arms, and instead of trying to start something he was just smelling her hair and being thankful he could. Sometimes he wondered if something was wrong with him... But most of the time he didn't have the energy to wonder.

Someone else did.

"You awake?"

He hadn't realized she was up; she had given no sign, not even (to his knowledge) opened her eyes. "How did you know?" he asked.

A shrug of one shoulder. "For almost two years we've slept in the same bed. I know what it's like when you're asleep."

"I didn't mean to disturb you."

"It's all right. I get to sleep in anyhow."

"Yeah."

Her other hand came up to cup his hand against her breast, and she snuggled back against him, sighing.

"I wonder if any of my applications have been answered yet," she said.

"Probably not, if you sent them out last night. No one's in the office yet. Check tonight."

"They never answer. What's the point of advertising on Craigslist if you're gonna ignore all the applicants?"

"Well, remember what Dad said. It's all about networking."

"Yeah, my dad said that too. But that doesn't help me. I'm a musician, I don't have connections in the business world. You at least have Dr. Polkiss and Dr. Leyton to give you references."

"Remember when... remember before we got married? When we thought it'd be so simple? I feel like I've grown up more in the last two years than the whole rest of my life combined." He gave a wry smile into her hair. "And here I thought you could only get married after you were a grown-up."

She sighed, and was silent for a long time. Jon didn't mind. Neither of them had ever been uncomfortable with solitude. The great wonder of it all was that now there was someone to share the solitude with.

"Jon... I need to ask you a question, and I need you to answer me honestly." He could hear the tension in her voice. Whatever this was, it was important. "Can you do that for me?"

"Of... Of course, sweetie. Just ask."

She was silent for another long time, and he wondered what she was building up for. His head was behind hers, and he could not see the way she squeezed her eyes closed against the tears.

"...Are you having an affair?" she said finally.

"W— What? W— Caitlyn, what on earth would make you ask that??"

"Are you?" she said.

"No," he said. "No. Of course not. Caitlyn, you... You were my first, you are my only. I don't want anyone who isn't you."

She said nothing, but her shoulders shook, and he was confused at the sensation of moisture on his arm before he realized she was crying.

"Baby, what... I think I'm missing something. What makes you think I'm having an affair?"

"Nothing, I... There isn't... I mean, it's not like I found blonde hairs on your clothes or something. And you text me all the time. Like, all the time. If you are sleeping with somebody, it must be nothing but quickies, and I know that that isn't... that that isn't your style, isn't..."

"Then what is it?"

"You just... Jon, when was the last time we were intimate?"

The question brought him up short. Has it actually been that long? "I don't know, Caitlyn," he admitted, "I haven't exactly kept track."

"Well, I haven't either," she said, "but it's been long enough that I've noticed." Her voice was wrinkled with tears. "And, Jon, it... I know what they say about the honeymoon period, I know that... I know that, back in the beginning, when we did it almost once a day... I know that isn't supposed to last. Honestly, I didn't mind when we slowed down. But this is...

"Jon, tell me truthfully. Am I putting on weight? Is something changing on my face? Am I hideous to you? You wake up in the mornings like this almost every day, but you never try to start anything anymore. I've been trying to understand what..." She trailed off then, and there were no words he could give her. He wanted to draw her closer, turn her towards him, comfort her, but the frightening truth was that she might not find his presence a comfort right now. So he stayed, drawn back from her, a weight of appalling shame on his chest, as she cried.

The truth, though, was that he couldn't have answered at that moment if he'd wanted to. There was a lot he had to sort through.

"Well, the first... Caitlyn, the first thing I have to say to you is that no, I am not having an affair. I never would. If we were having problems, I'd talk to you about them. If there really was something I felt like we lacked, I'd talk to you and we'd see if we could find other ways, and... I would be honest with you. But we aren't. We aren't having... Well, okay, we're having problems, we're bone-tired and two cents from bankruptcy. But we're not having problems, you and I aren't, not like we did those first few months."

"But we don't do anything in bed anymore," she sniffled.

"Would you want to? I'm too tired to enjoy it, and I think you are too."

"I know, and you're right, but I never thought... I always thought the sex would be the last thing to go, and... When you weren't trying to start anything with me, it..." Now she turned towards him, tear-tracks on her face shining in the dim light. "Jon, do you have any idea how frightened I've been?" And now he did draw her to him, cradling her in his arms as she cried into his chest.

The obvious question for him to ask would be, Then why didn't you try to initiate things yourself, but it would be tacky to say it. Fortunately, he wasn't the only one thinking it. "I know, I know I should've tried to... I know I should've tried starting things, but I was scared that..."

"Shh," he said. "Shh. It's okay. You haven't done anything wrong."

"But clearly I have, because you don't—"

"Shh. Oh, my love. That's not it at all."

"Then what is it?" she asked.

It was his turn to be silent, to think.

"Caitlyn... If you had asked me, the day before we got married, how often we'd be having sex today, I'd probably have told you, All the time. That was how I thought back then. Neither of us knew much of anything, but, based on what we did know, it was a pretty accurate analysis. But now, today, with what I know now..."

"What do you know now?"

"That sex isn't all that important," he said.

She was silent.

"I love having it and I especially love having it with you, but... I mean, honestly, if you said that we could only do it like once a month for the rest of our lives, I wouldn't really complain too much. I think you and I have accomplished about all we really want to or need to in the bedroom. It's fun, it's lovely... it's comfortable. We don't have to, like, do it all the time to know that.

"And a lot of my excitement back then was sheer insecurity, of not knowing for certain whether I actually would get laid—with you or with anyone. My dad's sister died of cancer while I was in college. She was unmarried and, to my knowledge, never had sex. (Obviously that's not something you ask your aunt, but, nonetheless.) When you've got that in your family tree, it stops being a joke."

"Yeah."

"I mean, look at where we are. I'm tired, you're tired, we aren't making enough money, we're running around organizing surprise baby showers for Zach and Christa... And what I've realized is that there are more important things than sex. Just having you here, holding you, getting to... You're my lover, and I'm glad of that. But what's really important is that you're my wife. My partner, my best friend, the girl who laughs at my jokes, who hugs me when I'm down. Caitlyn, that's so much more important than mere physical intimacy. I love... I mean, I love being in you, I love being together with you like that. But the most important part about it is that our hearts touch too. And we don't need sex for that."

She gave a hiccupy laugh. "I can't believe you're saying this."

"It's one of those things you don't find out until you're not a virgin anymore," he said.

"Yeah," she said. "And I get that you aren't— I mean, that was what was so confusing about your actions. If you were distancing yourself from me, you wouldn't ever... I mean, the intimacy was still there. You still wake up early almost every morning and just hold me, you wouldn't be doing that if you were withdrawing from... But it was a different expression, I wasn't used to it. It made me..."

He kissed the top of her head. "The day you're freaking out about not enough sex. Now you know what I felt like for eighteen months."

"I'm sorry for freaking out."

"It's okay. I'm sorry for freaking you out."

"I mean, and the thing is, you're right. I'm glad we've reached the point where we don't, like, have to have sex, because we've found other ways of being close. It means our love is still growing stronger." She gave a little laugh. "Maybe one day we won't have to use words either. You can just... wink, or nod, or smile, and... And I'll know."

"One life," he said.

"Hmm? What do you mean?"

"...Enh. Never mind."

For a time there was silence between them, but no longer cold stillness. She tried to bring herself closer to him, but he was still curled up and she had no real interest in bending over backwards. So she rolled back over, nestling into the curve of his body, feeling his chest against her back.

"No," she said. "You're right."

"...Right about what?" he said.

"One life. Not just becoming one flesh, or one mind, but... one life. Because now I don't even notice that I'm not alone when we're alone. 'Alone' includes you. I don't feel like I'm... I mean, it's not like I don't notice you're there, but I don't have to be... to be on, the way you do in public. It isn't 'you and me' anymore, it's 'we'."

"And that's why we don't have to use sex to be together anymore. Because we're never not-together."

"And, like... I mean, I like having sex, but it's... If you think about it, sex is about being separate, in its own way. Yes, there's that whole 'becoming one flesh' thing, and I love doing that, but that means we have to start separate and then overcome..."

"The bodies are closer, but the hearts are farther apart."

"Yeah. Sex makes us not-together."

"For a while.

"For a while."

Another silence. She wondered what it would be like to sleep without him. Ever since that split right at the beginning of their marriage, they had never slept separately. She almost could not remember what it was like to wake up without arms around her, without warm breath on the back of her neck, without (more often than not) morning wood poking at her.

She smiled and reached behind her. "But... Well, hey. There's nothing wrong with the old ways."

He was still for a moment, wordless, even as she found his cock, flaccid and soft between their bodies. She heard and felt his breathing begin to quicken, felt him start to stiffen in her hand.

"For old time's sake?" she asked, turning her head to smile back at him.

It was slow and warm. His hands on her body were skilled, trained, knowing exactly where to touch and how, until she felt the full, wet ache underneath her and rolled onto her back, guiding him over her. She stroked his hair, his face, his neck, as he positioned himself at the entrance to her pussy and then pushed in, inch by exquisite inch, until she had all of him in her and yet still pulled at him, bracing her heels behind his back, trying to draw him in further. And once he was seated inside her, he did not move, but settled to his elbows to kiss her. Her pussy was like silk, smooth and warm around his cock, caressing every inch of his length; she could feel all of him, every bit of skin, every ridge and vein and bump. Her thighs opened to his hips, her arms clutched him to her, her breast and body bore him up beneath him. There was no part of him that she did not touch, no part of her that he did not touch.

"I don't want to cum," he whispered to her, and she kissed his ear and said, "I don't either," and so for a long time they lay together in silence, breathing, kissing, enjoying the gift of each other's bodies. Before their first time, she had expected to feel dirty when she gave herself to him, but even from the very beginning she never did; she felt exhilarated, exalted. Nervous, yes, and shy, but never soiled. Later she understood that it was their love that was pure, and so thus was their lovemaking. There was nothing shameful about giving herself to the man she loved. And this was pure too—perfect stillness, wordless, unselfish. A man and a woman who loved each other, sharing both body and soul with each other.

Eventually, though, the demands of the flesh were too much, and he had to move; she felt the push and pull of him as he began his slow, deliberate thrusts. She watched his face, and he watched hers: the way his eyes sometimes lost focus, the flare of her nostrils; his quiet, almost subsonic moans; her gasps and happy sighs; the way her fingers dug into his shoulder, the insistence of his mouth on her neck.

She came first, much to her surprise—she hadn't realized it was even going to happen, but even as the realization came, so did the release. The breath rushed out of her in a delighted moan, and she saw him smile before her eyes closed. He knew too, and he kissed her, caressed her, feeling the tension build in her arms and legs and stomach, tension that dissolved into joyous release as her muscles fluttered around him, as her head fell back, as she shuddered in his arms, pleasure coursing through her until all that was left was an exhausted smile.

She could tell he was close, and she smiled up at him and pulled at him, urging him on. When she felt him reach his full hardness within her she knew it was time: she pulled him as deep as he would go and felt the pulse of his cock, the way his body tightened above hers and then went limp, the way his knotted steel dissolved into pleasure and groans and flowing seed that erupted warm against her inner walls. And as he shook and spasmed and grew still, she drew him down so she could feel his heart beat under his skin.

In the aftermath, she realized she had closed her eyes. On the other side of her eyelids, she found his face waiting with an expression of almost helpless love upon it. And she knew that, yes, their love was still growing. Because today, for the first time, he didn't have to say it, and she knew.

When she kissed him good-bye, she whispered in his ear: "What if you went inside me while we were spooning and we slept that way?" And from his laugh, she knew that she had nothing to worry about. So what if Jon wasn't as excited to share her body anymore? He had her soul to love instead.

And, in the end, isn't that what matters?