At 3:18, when the lights are low and the warmth of the day has long departed, when the bones of your back ache like red links of rusted chain and your hours-ago dinner sits low in stomach like wet cement, when the clock slows to standstill and your tired heartbeat echoes across feather-down infinity, it isn’t the sex you miss. It isn’t the passion nor the fury, not the pride nor the power. But rather the closeness and comfort, the common ground, the gentle touch of hand on shoulder and the softly whispered words assuring you that everything will be all right.