The Eastern Point Lighthouse
September 20th
7:18AM

He woke up with his eyes practically glued closed and a bit of a fatigue related headache in his skull, but it was not the worst feeling he'd had of late. The low orange sun, just recently crested over the edge of the horizon, flooded the Lighthouse with natural light. Despite the slight chill left in the air, Harold liked the color; he had an eye for color, and always had, and thought of past lovers and how they looked in that light.

He did a quick check. The radio was quiet, and the bakers were asleep, and Maia was...

...not asleep.

Frowning a bit, Harold sat up in his little nest of blankets, finally locating the woman out sitting on the deck.

Long accustomed to nightmares, his own and those of others, he just looked at her for a moment. There was something of a mirror there. God knows how many times he had sat just there like that, looking out to sea, holding still in the hopes that the light and salt and wind would be enough to dissipate the troubles.

He didn't know how long she had been out there like that, but he didn't ask. He got up, whisper quietly, and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes; went and made a couple mugs of jasmine tea. She probably heard him come out; the window door wasn't perfectly quiet.

He didn't ask, nor say anything. Just sat down next to her, once he set the tea down on the opposite side, close enough that his heavy wool sea blanket could rest easily across both their shoulders in the new light.

No words. He was just there; if she wanted to talk, he would listen. If she wanted him gone, he would likely go.

If she wanted two living arms to hold her and remind her she was alive, he would give them.

And the sun still rose.