Jack observed her. He observed her as she walked and as she moved. He felt almost like he could see her in one of her gowns, and he wondered then if she missed it; the way she walked seemingly built for it. Such elegance and grace.

His eyes drifted, and from her form to her arm and her fingertips and the delicacy with which they moved. It switched things in his mind, and he wondered if that was intentional on her part. Wondered, and then silently chided himself for doing so. Of course it was. There was nothing in this that was ever unintentional.

It caused him need to shift a little on the bed.

"Nothing that matters," he said simply, eyes on hers again. Unfaltering, unwavering.