I feel his lips at my temple, pressing gently, and the gesture makes me smile. It's much easier for him to communicate this way--no words to trip over. I've come to not only understand that, but also to accept it. It's as true a declaration of love as any spoken words could ever be. We've developed our own shorthand over the past few months--a brush of the hand, a look across a room, a kiss to the forehead.

Life isn't perfect, by any means. I know that we can't be together, not in any traditional way. We don't lead traditional lives, so why should I expect that we'd have a traditional relationship? It hurt to give up that dream, (oh, did it hurt), but it's preferable to the soul-deep loneliness that haunted both of us before we sorted all of this out. Nothing is ever perfect for anyone, I suppose, so I've learned to settle for perfect moments instead. Moments like this one, with his arms around me and the seagulls crying overhead and the surf crashing exuberantly against the shore. I crystallize these scenes and string them on a chain of memory.

In my crystalline moments, nothing else exists. I know that sounds cliche, but it's true. It has to be true, because it's the only way we find any peace. The thought of Michael at peace is still slightly foreign, to him as well as me. He spent so long unhappy. That's what it was, at the core of it--complete and utter misery. Something finally convinced him that he was allowed to be happy. Maybe it was losing Adam. Maybe it was that night we made love until dawn in my apartment. I don't know, and he probably doesn't either.

We've learned not to question the things that don't need to be questioned.

His arms tighten around my waist and his love suffuses me, fills me up. I revel in the contentment, bathe in it and allow it to warm me. It's not only Michael who had to learn to be happy. There's a joy in this stillness that I've learned to touch. It truly is as if we're the only two people on earth. Nothing can touch us here.

"Michael," I say.

"Yes?"

"We don't really need to go back, do we?"

He smiles into my hair. "No. Of course not. We can stay here."

I turn in his arms and drop a quick kiss on his mouth. "Good," I say.

These are the little games we play with ourselves. Of course we need to go back. Both of us know that. But here, in this endless second, Section has no hold over us. They don't even exist. There is only me, and the warm and loving presence behind me, and the open air.

His hand caresses my hip. "The sun should be setting soon."

"I bet it will be glorious," I murmur dreamily.

"We'll just have to stay and see it, love." He holds me tighter to him.

I wriggle around to face him, grinning from ear to ear. "Yes, please." The kiss is longer this time, and we're in imminent danger of missing the sunset before he finally lets me go. But it's time well spent, and when I turn around to face the west, the light show has begun. The sky is stained with bands of color--maroon, pink, purple, red--and the sun is glowing with a fire that can never be extinguished.

I know how it feels.

Soon we will have to leave this place and return to gray, sterile Section. God only knows what missions we have coming up. The last month or so has been rough. I've been shot once, Michael twice, and we've seen some horrible things. Operatives dying by the dozens. Atrocities committed by power-hungry psychopaths (both inside and outside of Section.) Mind games which never stop. And I know now that there's no way out of it or around it, only through it.

I've never been happier.