She accommodates the shifting, rearranging limbs to settle comfortably nearer, face still tucked against a shoulder. She hums against his skin, a familiar noise--mild, thoughtful, consideration without agreement.

"What if," she says, and he may recognize this tone too, the hint of a tease, the faintest imitation of his storytelling cadences, matched in the stroke of her fingertips at the nape of his neck, "One day, after some years of solitary fishing, you meet a lady fishmonger. Maybe the old fishmonger retires and his daughter takes his place. She's a widow, you see, with two small children. Her husband recently lost at sea. And every week you bring her your catch and you, being the friendly fellow you are, chat about the weather and the fish and the state of the island and how her children are doing, and she is funny and sweet and has a pretty smile. And one day her little son asks if you'll teach him to fish. Of course you can't say no to that. You wouldn't shut your door in their faces."