Tristan sings in the shower. I doubt he knows how good the acoustics are in this place and I'm not about to tell him because... I don't know if he'll stop or not.

He's up there right now crooning out some unfortunately memorable country song and as much of a secret pleasure as it is to listen to, I had to come down to the fire. I think better staring into the flames. Fire and cards, they've always helped my focus.

It bothers me that I don't know. We've been together for a while now and I can't even predict whether he'd stop singing if he knew I could hear him. I know just how his breath will sound if I run my finger along the inside of his wrist, precisely the expression in his eyes when he talks about his work, exactly the grin he uses when he's trying to get a rise out of me. I know how his voice sounds when he's tired. Or hurt. Or excited or aroused or wary.

But I don't know this. And I should. I should, damn it, I want to know everything about him and I'm realizing I don't. Not even close.

His strong arm slides around my waist as he pulls me back against him. I can't help the reflexive twitch; I hadn't even heard him come in.

I can't even seem to know that.

He murmurs into my neck, a low rumble of a question and I answer something to reassure him. We stand quietly like that for a small eternity until I finally relax into his solid presence supporting me. It's all right that I don't know. If I could always predict him, he'd never be able to surprise me, challenge my thinking, motivate me to be more than I am. I choose to believe we'll have the time to learn more.

Staring into the leaping tongues of flame I can feel the smile barely touch my lips as I lay my arm along the top of his... and stroke the warm skin of his wrist.

What I do know, I know well.

---

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