It was summer and Rose was sleeping.

It was summer and that hung thick in the air with the promise of the ocean deftly strung beneath.

It was summer and she was so beautiful, sheets kicked off, hand tucked under her cheek, bare legs folded.

It was summer, she had put on his shirt because she couldn't find her own and she wasn't wearing knickers and she would most likely let him have his way again if he woke her but he wouldn't.

It was summer and her skin held all their moments: coconut sunscreen still lingering on her back, baby oil about her hands, sea salt in her hair.

It was summer and this was happiness, this pause where all time led to this place and began, where memories became and became again.

It was summer and her warm murmurs were familiar and the pleasure had changed because of that and he knew where she would put her hands and how she wanted him to come to her.

It was summer and he had never been gladder that they had named the baby June and he would bring her to this beach for all her birthdays so that the feel of this place would remind her of him after he was gone.

It was summer and he felt it, how long they still had, how many ways that distance could be measured by him with two sets of senses, but for now, the time didn't really matter at all.