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They open all the windows to let the wind blow through the cabin. Walt slouches down on the couch and stretches out his long legs so his feet are propped on the coffee table. He tells her stories about Lucian's days as the sheriff that sound so far-fetched they've got to be true. Vic lies with her head in his lap and watches him laugh, her whole body filling up with the sound. He's relaxed and happy and here, and she loves him with a tender, buoyant ache.

The wind has changed direction since she got home; it's cooler now, coming down from the mountains, and she's grateful for Walt's radiating warmth. She blinks slowly, drowsily, as he plays with her hair, lifting the strands and watching them flutter in the breeze when they're caught. She scratches lightly at the forearm he's draped across her middle, the springy hairs curling over her fingers.

"Lucian always liked you," he says after a while.

Vic snorts. "Lucian liked my tits."

"Mmm." Walt's attention is still on her hair. "He did have good taste."

For a split second she stares up at him, mouth gaping. "Did you just—" Then he throws her a wicked glance and she can't help it, she's cackling, because he really did just praise her tits by way of Lucian fucking Connally. "Baby, you talk so sweet," she coos, making Walt laugh, and she sits up, drowsiness forgotten.

"Okay, but seriously, you've got some work to do there." She tucks her toes under his thigh and rests her chin in one hand. "I mean, Bob once called me a beautiful sunrise, so the bar for compliments has been set pretty high."

"Good thing for me Bob's in prison, I guess," Walt says. His voice does that low, rumbling thing that makes her tingle.

"Yep," she agrees.

Smiling, he reaches out and tucks her hair back on one side. His fingers linger against her ear, tracing the shape of it, and she arches her neck with a shiver. He's so close now that he fills up the space all around her. When he speaks she can feel the breath behind the words against her lips.

"I like coming home to you, Vic."

It feels like her heart does a slow-motion somersault inside her chest.

"I like you coming home to me."

He kisses her then, very softly, with his thumb ghosting lightly along her cheek. She turns her head to press her lips against his palm.

Walt takes her hand and laces their fingers together, resting them against her knee. She studies the way their knuckles are woven over each other—his larger, hers paler. They make a tiny mountain range out of bone and skin and will. The landscape looks bumpy and uneven, but they fit.

They fit.