It's not the most comfortable position to rest his cheek against her head; he's too tall for that. But he really doesn't care right now.

The sun is sinking below the horizon, leaving only a thin golden curve above the land. Soon it will vanish, leaving only the pink and orange billows of clouds to fade into dusk.

"We will never," he says finally, breath warm against her hair, "have any guarantees. No matter how long we wait."

Part of him is thinking, this is real.

We're really deciding this.

"If we have a way, and you are willing to take it -- if it is all right for you, for both of us -- then... maybe we shouldn't wait too long."

This whole conversation has been spiraling towards this choice, but it still comes out hesitant, half a question.

But only half.