Maria snatched it triumphantly and flipped through it with the eagerness of a child that had just found her favorite toy. But she wasn’t prepared for what she saw.

The book contained page after page of -- her. Sleeping. Each drawing was dated and timed. There was the one with her hair fanned about her face, her lashes long and dark against her cheeks; there was the one where she’d lain on her side with her hand under her cheek, her hair tucked behind her ear; and then there was the one where she’d thrown an arm across her forehead, and the action had pulled one bare breast out from under the sheet. Michael had a drawing for each of those mornings she'd slept beside him.

She remembered that last one particularly well. The cool morning air had caused the nipple to pucker slightly and she’d grabbed his hand instead of the sheet to cover it. Even in her somnolent state, she’d been aware of the Michael-warmth that had spread from his hand right through her shoulder and she remembered spooning herself against him just so his warmth would wrap all around her. And she remembered his arms coming round to encircle her then. So, when had he found the time to make the sketch? Spaceboy was always full of surprises.

When Maria finally managed to crank her jaw shut and turned her head to look at him, she found that Michael was blushing furiously, refusing to meet her eyes, choosing instead to stare vacantly at his hands as they played nervously with the sheet.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, bracing himself for the angry tirade he was sure she was going to unleash. Something about invading her privacy or whatever. How was he going to explain it to her? That every morning he woke up to her, it had been in amazement? He could never figure out why Maria wanted to be with him when all he did was screw-up. So he'd drawn those pictures to remember. That she was there with him still. The morning after.

Sorry for what? Maria thought. In those few drawings, her beautiful, non-verbal, vibrator Michael had just revealed how he saw her. Beautiful, angelic, at peace with the world. And in turn unknowingly captured the glow she knew she had only when she was around him. She shook her head and reached for him, returning the sketchbook to its place under the bed.

"Don't ever be sorry for loving me, Michael," she said, and planted a soft kiss on his temple, the way he'd once done with her in a similar act of reassurance.