Strong, capable hands, Cal thought. Probably inherited from her artist mother. The nails were short and unpainted, at the ends of long fingers. There was a scar, a faint one he’d noticed before, along the base of her thumb. He’d meant to ask her how she’d come by it.

He thought he’d been tired when he’d come in—not physically, but mentally, with the burden of figures and calculations weighing on his mind. But now, seeing her, fatigue was forgotten.

He’d managed, somehow, to stop thinking about her while he’d worked. It had been a deliberate effort to stop thinking, stop wanting, stop needing. Because of it he’d managed to make some progress. He was all but sure of what he had to do to get home. He knew the odds and the risks. Now, watching her, he knew the sacrifice.

He’d only known her briefly. It was necessary, very necessary, to remind himself of that. His life wasn’t here, with her. He had a home, an identity. He had a family, he realized now, that he loved more than he had once comprehended.

But he stood and watched her as the minutes ticked away, absorbing every breath, every careless gesture. The way her hair swept over her neck, the way her stockinged foot tapped impatiently when her fingers paused. Now and then she would drag a hand through her hair or cup her chin in her palms and stare owlishly at the screen. He found every movement endearing. When he finally said her name, his voice was strained.

“Libby.”

She jolted and spun in her chair to stare at him. The hallway was dark behind him. He was just a silhouette, propped casually against the doorframe. Love nearly smothered her.

“Oh. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“You were pretty deep in your work.”

“I guess.” When he stepped into the room, the intensity in his eyes had her drawing her brows together. “What about yours? Did it go well?”

“Yes.”

“You look upset. Is something wrong?”

“No.” He reached down to touch her face, and his eyes softened. “No.”

“Your calculations?”

“Coming along.” Her skin felt like silk, he thought, and it warmed under his touch. “In fact. I made more progress than I’d expected.”

“Oh.” He thought he saw a shadow flicker in her eyes, but her voice was bright and encouraging. “That’s good. Did you ride the cycle back?”

“Yeah. I left it behind the shed.”

It had been a stupid question, she thought. He would hardly have hiked all the way. She wanted to ask him to take her up again, now, while the moon was rising. The wind was already picking up, warning of rain. It would be wonderful. But he looked tired, and troubled.