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Sam was curled up on couch in front of the fire, snug under a fuzzy, old afghan. She had pulled Jack’s pillow from the bed for her head and snuggled her nose into it just enough to still see the fire burning cheerily in the cabin’s stone fireplace, and still feel surrounded by his scent.
It was quiet except for the rhythmic sounds of Jack outside, chopping extra wood for the fireplace, “Just in case,” he’d said, even though there was already a large stack courtesy of the neighbor Jack paid to see to such things. Sam smiled to herself and snuggled deeper into the pillow. She knew it wasn’t just because he needed the physical activity after the long drive. The strenuous, repetitive movements helped him clear his head. It was that final step he needed to shed the last of the stress of his position in DC.
She was dozing when he came in the door, bringing with him a wintery blast and an armful of firewood. She watched him with half-closed eyelids as he dropped the wood by the fireplace and pulled off his gloves and coat. She didn’t need to see him to know his hair stuck up all over after pulling off his knit beanie.
“There’s coffee, when you’re ready,” she told him, as he sat to pull off his boots.
“In a minute,” he groaned, sniffing an armpit, “shower first. I stink.”
“Need help?” She snuggled further into the afghan.
He laughed. They’d been together long enough now for him to know her snuggle deep into the pillow meant she was relaxed to the point of almost unconsciousness and the question was purely rhetorical. “Apparently not.”
She listened as he padded into the bedroom and his clothes hit the basket in the small closet. A minute later the bathroom door opened and the shower started. His gasp as he stepped into the stream of cold water made her snort. They’d been together long enough now for her to know he never shut the bathroom door when they were alone, and he never waited for the water to warm before he stepped in. He was an expert at the two-minute shower, unless she was helping, of course. That always took longer. A lot longer.
Her head jerked a bit as she woke to hear him padding through the small living area to the kitchen. The cabinet door opened, then shut as he pulled out a cup, then the old metal coffee pot clunked a bit as he set it back on the stove. Then he was sitting at the end of the couch, pulling her feet from under the afghan and into his lap, where he rubbed one then the other absent-mindedly as he sipped at his coffee.
“You awake?”
“Mmmm”
“Sure you are.”
“If I was asleep, I wouldn’t be enjoying the foot rub”
“If you were asleep, I wouldn’t be touching your feet.” He grunted as he reached to set his empty cup on the small table at the end of the couch.
He placed her feet back under the afghan, then stretched out along her length, his head on her shoulder, his face warm against the crook of her neck. She lifted her arms to encircle him. He relaxed into her, fully and completely.
“I love you, Samantha O’Neill,” he whispered. As his eyes became heavy and he started to doze, she held him a little closer and whispered into his hair, “I love you, too, Jack O’Neill.”
This was the moment she loved most, when he gave everything over to her, in complete trust and rest. It was the pause where it was just them, and even their hearts beat in time.