He couldn't ever remember such a quiet.
There is always a fire roaring in the forge, or the clip-clop of horses outside, or people talking. Never quiet. Never such a quiet as this.
He supposes footsteps will sound outside the door soon, despite that the world is still dark outside the window. The slight breeze wandering through the spaces in the wooden shutters cools the sweat on his skin, flutters the sheets they're both tangled in. His strong arms, corded in muscle from year in the forge, wrap easily around her slim waist, the calloused palms hot on her cool skin. With his cheek pressed into her spine, he can hear each strong, steady breath go into and out of her lungs, and he imagines he can hear her life's blood flow through her veins.
So quiet now, when only moments ago she was alive and writhing and kissing and tugging and teasing and loving him. Moments ago her cool skin was alight with pleasure, burned with passion. Moments ago, when they were one.
He shivers with the cool bree