There is no better aim than that. No greater hope to be stolen from life itself— either blessed or cursed.

He rests his cheek across her shoulder in turn, his eyes half-lidded, staring drowsily at the ceiling overhead, studying nothing in particular but the give of his own thoughts.

“Am I to take it this means you will instead remain here tonight?”

It is wry. His lips twist when he speaks, just the barest, near-imperceptible difference.