The night is his domain, but the fire in her eyes is well outside the bounds of that. He coaxes and stokes her and blows cool breaths across her skin that make her laugh, laughter that turns into soft (or loud) moans of pleasure.
He is always proud of his handiwork, and she teases him about being such a man.
He is so warm, in so many ways.
His skin is warm, flush with blood and muscle. His heart beats and she savors of the feeling of being in his bed, between his sheets, within his embrace.
His heart is warm, in spite of the chill that threatens to overtake it. It shows in his regard for this family, for those around him. It is clear in the way he worries every time the signal flashes in the sky, in the way he obsessively reads Watchtower logs, in the way he and Superman communicate.
His eyes are warm, if you can read their expressions correctly. He is expressive, but he is also a long, slow study.
His smile is warm. Not the empty one he gives to the world at large, nor the nigh-cruel one he flashes when he neutralizes a threat. No, the one he reveals so rarely, the true one, the one that is almost shy and unpracticed. That one - that one is warm.
They, they feel the heat between them and it pushes them. They go harder and faster and stronger, in everything. The tip-toeing around, the privacy, the daring - they ramp it up to eleven and savor the feelings every step of the way.
Theirs is a love made of stolen moments, and that only makes the urgency more acute. It is what keeps them going - no one said self-destruction was mutually exclusive.