She looks down, shuffles her feet among autumn leaves, an onslaught from the storm. All night she stayed awake, listening to its ravages, a wild, untamed thing trailing destruction in its path.
Now it is spent. At peace.
She looks up at him, cautious, hesitant. Foolishly shy. "You don't mind?"
He stands back and the warmth of the place embraces her, its familiarity consoles, tends wounds. He says something, but sound is swallowed, heads burrowing animal-like, skin against skin.
Later, he asks, "Did you hear the storm?"
"Yes," she says, "but it's over now."