This is what you chase now, when time and weather permit, and even sometimes when they do not. The long climb, up his arbor and up his body. Each fall alike, but never the same.

"The moon is bright tonight," he says in the tone of lazy, lofty satisfaction that curls around the bed like sunset heat. You don't have to look out the open window to see it hanging full and heavy. Thieves' moon. He cups his palm at the back of your neck to catch the shudder before it runs down your spine.

Shifting an arm in order to lace your fingers through his, you reply, "There's places where the sun shines at night 'stead of the moon."

"Where?"

"North." You've never been, only heard tell, but no need for him to know that.

"Thank you, Jack, that makes it all so much clearer."

You pinch him for his cheek. He kicks you in the shin—not very hard, fortunately, as you're lying too close. "Near the poles, love."

"If that is so, how could a man tell night from day?"

A shrug, fingertips brushing the back of his palm. "I expect the way a blind man tells. The knowing's something differ'nt from whatever may be around."

He snorts, setting off a single chime in your hair. "That's ridiculous."

But his hand squeezes yours, and after a moment of silence he lifts it to his lips. You smile against the straight line of his collarbone, faintly, letting him think you asleep. Admit it he may not, but he knows as well as you do.