The explosions in the air were constant, gold fading to green, the trails of blazing ashes touching the water and hissing in protest at meeting the wet end of their bright moments of glory. The sky had turned to smoke, the scent of the air had changed from that of water and sand and fish to that of the heavy smog, and fingers of clouds had dusted the lovers lightly in soot. He couldn't have been too comfortable, even after scooping all of those rocks out from beneath the blanket on which they lay, but he considered it this: he had far more facts to celebrate than about which to complain.

For one, that the woman he loved was flooding his every sense: through the darkness, he could see the glitter of her brown eyes; her laugh cut through the calls of the birds and the breaking of the waves on the rocky beach; his face was tickled by her breath and her hair snaking at the wind's command; and his lips were being teased by frequent, barely-sensible brushes of hers.

He knew that she craved to be deeper in, and feeling wanted in this fashion, by this woman, was a thing to add to this list of positives—but she'd so soon just been immersed so deep in a relationship, doing this to someone else, that his doubts were as equally strong as his desire.

"Would this be right for you?" he whispered, feeling her hands close on his shoulders and her lips draw nearer again.

There was a pause; she stopped entirely, and he feared he may have killed their exchange of magic. But, her head only tilted, her lips sneaking even nearer. "It wouldn't be right tomorrow," she breathed against the lower half of his slightly-parted mouth.

She moved no further, leaving him instead with the choice to proceed or not, to listen to the shouting of his doubts or heed the throbbing pain of his desires.

Tonight is not tomorrow, whispered his conscience, nor will it ever be.