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The gas station's not exactly being built from the ground up, despite her earlier statement, but there is a lot of work to be done. Forrest is the one who moves to start fixing up the outside of the place, repairing broken windows and shutters, patching holes in the roof, that sort of thing. Maggie is the one who supervises the interior, hauling out the broken appliances and putting in the orders to replace them with new ones - or, slightly used, since nothing really needs to be in brand-new condition around this place. She knows Forrest wouldn't be comfortable unless there was at least one squeaky floorboard.

Her latest task is fixing the seats of the rocking chairs on the porch, putting new cushions together and fixing the intricately laced thatching of the backs. She works to the constant sound of hammering nails, or a saw moving through wood, and every now and then a grunt of exertion - or pain, if the hammer slips.

By the time they head back to the apartment building, they're both exhausted and completely content with the day's work, and Maggie leads the way into Forrest's without any hesitating whatsoever. There's a familiarity here, as she moves around the kitchen, preparing the kettle full of water to put some tea on after they both get cleaned up. She hears him heading into the washroom and her hand stills over the knob on the stovetop before slowly turning it off. The sound of the shower starting up precedes the sound of the unlocked door creaking open.

She's pulled off the handkerchief holding her hair back first, stripping out of her trousers and then yanking her blouse up over her head. She can see the faint outline of his body, the breadth of his shoulders. His back is still turned when she steps in behind him, fits herself against him, lowers her head to kiss the place between his shoulderblades, rivulets running down over his skin.

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Forrest, as always, was thorough and efficient in the shower. He scrubbing himself down with little joy in the task, he didn't linger, he only used up as much hot water and soap was necessary. In fact, he was nearly finished with his wash when the curtain pulls back with a rush of cold air, a frown tugging his lips as he grunted and tried to turn.

But she was right there, warm against his back, blocking out the chill of recycled air, her lips even warmer.

"Uh, Maggie...?" he muttered, his confusion giving way rapidly, to make way for something else entirely.

There's muscle under her fingertips, firm and strong, and he's mostly clean by now, skin scrubbed firm with soap as he blocks most of the spray. Water droplets cling to the ends of her hair when she leans in, winding her arms around his body to draw herself flush against him, and lets her lips trail to the end of one shoulder, breathing in the scent of his skin.

If he wants an answer in words, he's not going to be getting one.

He seemed to weigh his options for a bit, standing still under her wandering hands and warm lips, then untangled her arms from around him, only to turn and face her. His hands lifted to her face, wide and calloused on her delicately pale cheeks, and he pressed his lips first to her brow, the bridge of her nose, her lips.

He didn't want an answer in words. He never did.

She lets her eyes drift shut, a soft breath escaping her when he turns around and cups her face gently, so gently in spite of those big working hands of his. His lips find her next, with a gentility one might not expect from a man like him, but she's swayed under the tenderness of the contact, finally melting against him when his mouth touches hers.

Her arms come around him, slowly, and the kiss itself takes on more hunger, more heat.

He was still getting the hang of this, but it turned out that it didn't take a whole lot of thinking, and the learning curve was steep. She fit just right against him, like nobody else ever could, and it didn't seem to matter one bit that the hot water was gonna run out, and that they were at risk of slipping on the tile and breaking their necks.

There was a good deal he wanted to say to her, in that moment, which was an unusual sort of feeling for a man like Forrest. Luckily, he didn't have to. This type of communication, he found, suited him just fine.

She murmurs, half-breathless, against the line of his throat when she breaks the kiss for a moment, the combination of the steam around them and the heat of his lips making her quite lightheaded indeed.

"You want to get out?" she asks, fingertips trailing down his back in an unconscious mimicking of water drops. There's only one thing that's bound to happen once they're out and dry, and she's ready for it to.

"Hm?" he grunted, a little line of confusion creasing his brow, 'cause words didn't make a whole lotta sense to him just then.

"Um, yep," he decided finally, figuring he was clean enough for now, his hand fumbling blindly to turn off the faucet. It was goin' cold, anyhow.

She doesn't reach for anything beyond a towel once they're out, briefly tying it around herself, but her feet are still wet when she takes his hand in her own, quietly leading him out of the washroom and into the bedroom.

In the semi-darkness, she pulls the towel away from her body, standing bare before him.

They were gonna get the sheets all wet, but he didn't care much. He barely bothered with a towel, himself, and in the bedroom, he went to her, found her mouth with his, framed the shape of her face in his hands, and pressed against her in a way he'd never considered possible not so long ago.

In that moment, same as every moment, he loved her more than he could bear.

Her heart's been aching the same way her body has, for those briefly lingering touches to build and become something more, but she hadn't wanted to be greedy or selfish, hadn't wanted to rush things. His touch on her banished the darker memories of invasive hands grabbing and groping, some of them still covered in his blood.

She still hasn't spoken of that night.

When he kisses her, she melts against him, curves her body to fit against his broad frame, her arms holding him close as she shows him everything she cannot say.

It was a wonder that a man like him could manage to be gentle, but he was careful as he might've been were she made of glass, his hand splayed at the gentle curve of her spine, walking them both with clear intent in the direction of the bed.

He turned to sit himself down on the edge of the mattress, his hands on her hips as he pulled her in, never once breaking the kiss.

She steps closer to him as he seats, still standing over him, her arms loosely winding around his neck as she slides into his hold.

And then she leans forward, using her weight to slowly lean him back across the bed, hovering over him with one hand braced against the mattress, stretched out across him. Her eyes find his in the dark and she slips one hand lower to touch him where he swells hard and heavy between his legs.