" He didn’t stir when she brushed the hair from his forehead. She’d leave in a minute. She just wanted to look at him awhile. Let it sink in that he was hers and she was his. That she’d found love despite her efforts to avoid it. That she’d found a man who was worth the risk. That he loved her, had waited for her. Not for weeks or months but for years. She let her eyes roam over his beautiful, familiar face. His long lashes, his stately nose, his lips, slackening now in sleep. He was breathing easily, sleeping deeply. She looked at the door, considering, then settled into the chair instead. She wasn’t going anywhere. Not for a long time. "

― Denise Hunter , Dancing with Fireflies (Chapel Springs, #2)