The night before he was due to leave was endless
and far, far too brief. 

It was late enough that, normally, they would be crawling into bed and sharing a bland insult or two before passing out; but as she emerged from the shower it seemed to Sirin that the stretching expanse of the unruffled sheets was mocking her, and to sleep tonight was to admit defeat.
And she had never been fond of losing.

"What are you doing?" came the mild query as she edged by to rifle through his discarded clothing.
"I need a shirt."
"No you don’t."
"Yes I do."
"And you’re looking for mine because yours have all mysteriously disappeared."
"Shut up. Mine are dirty," she snapped, ignoring the almost audible lift of his eyebrows as she slid his shirt on and bent to retrieve his pants. A tug on the hem of her impromptu dressing gown sent her stumbling towards the bed and into Roan’s grasp, where he steadied her and immediately buried his face into her stomach.

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