The habit of expressing affection through action rather than words is an old one. They spent too long in circumstances that couldn't permit that declaration; they're so accustomed to the threat of surveillance, to wondering who might overhear any given conversation, no matter how private. She's always tried to offer him plenty of evidence. (At the moment she thinks it's fairly definitive.)

But she's well aware that her discomfort with saying it isn't entirely healthy; it's an understandable reluctance, given everything she's lost, everything they've seen, the many times they've been pulled apart. Maybe that only makes it more crucial to push through her discomfort, now and then. To state it plainly, not because he doesn't know but because he deserves to hear it so much more than he does.

(And there are so many opportunities that have been taken from him. He never heard her say it when she found out she was pregnant with William; never had their son clumsily hug his father. There's a lot of lost time; sometimes the weight of it is overwhelming enough to spur action.)

He answers, and her face breaks into a smile so bright it aches; she leans in swiftly to kiss him, her arms falling to his shoulders.

"Easy to say now," she teases. "Not when they're screaming at three A.M....."

But her tone is light and fond, heavy with love and anticipation, with a little bit of old grief-- the husky nostalgia that always creeps in when she thinks of William as a baby. It will never be fair, the things he missed, but at least this time they'll get to share it. Good and bad, but really all good, because they'll be together.