He walks in late on the tips of his toes, careful not to make a sound, and cause a stir. Black Oxford shoes slip noiselessly off his heels, resting up against the entrance wall. Rather than hang his keys up, he gingerly takes off his coat, and rests it on the back of the couch. Cuffs slide into pockets, wallet sits on the center-piece, muffled by a pile of magazines, issues of TIME, The Economist, and WSJ all playing their part in this translucent deafness. His weary memory serves to recall which stairs creak and where, so he steps up to the loft without a single groan to disturb the delicate sense of balance.
He finds her in bed, asleep. Her heat tints the bed where she's drawn out his shape in pillows, duvet, and creases in the sheet. He sighs, short but heavy, and takes the three steps up to her side. Her eager arm lies ready to curl up around his chest, but he takes pains not to let her know about it. With careful consideration, he fits into the outline she's traced for him, his face close enough to feel her hot breath streaming down his cheeks. He kisses her forehead, kisses her cheek, and kisses her lips tenderly; she responds with sleep-stained mumbling remonstrations. He smiles softly, and continues running his hands through her long black hair.
Sleep can wait. But this, here and now, definitely cannot.