Lee's steps were heard along the corridor toward the basement beneath your shared home—which over time had become decorated to be homely rather than just a simple place of sleep, followed with a gentle close of a wooden door; he'd always been afraid to scare you and the man would sooner cut off his own hands than see you afraid or pained; hence his caution.

A large, calloused hand rested on your hip, his beard bristling against your smooth skin,

"We can talk here, they wont hear." he gently muttered into the crook of your small neck, a soft kiss to your temple.

Harvest Moon by Neil Young played in the distance; on the record player. Moments like these were moments to be cherished in the reality you suffered, a reality of forced silence due to the fear following the creatures that would do unspeakable things if they had heard a subtle noise.