Amador had this way to him. A quiet dignity in his whiskey eyes. A talent for waiting. He was waiting now. Maybe he was waiting for her to tell him what she missed, what she wanted. Maybe it would be as easy as leaning into him, to feel his hand on her, his mouth. Rain drummed the roof. A pressure mounted within her. He would take away her grief if she let him try, if he could. It would be a kindness. It would be theft.
