He doesn't answer, and that in and of itself is telling, that it's not now, and he can't say there will be a when. They don't know. They can't know.

So she pulls his trousers off, dropping them over the side of the bed. His boxers follow them. She sits back on her heels, and just looks at him for a long moment, taking in every line and curve and slope of his body, every scar, every trace of ink decorating his skin. If she had the time, she'd spend it examining him, discovering him, every inch. She knows he would do the same.