What I imagine happened after the fade out in 1964. Also, first time writing anything vaguely smutty, I apologise in advance.

Their clothes are shed -piece by piece, item by item- across his apartment.

Her coat on his coffee table. His top on the carpet. Her cardigan heaped next to his bedroom door.

Laura pushes him against the wall next to his room, fingers fisting in his hair, mussing it out of gelled formation. She kisses eagerly, and it's all Ted can do to respond with his own fervour and curl his arms around her frame, unzipping her skirt. She smiles against his lips and undoes his belt in response. Laura looks up at him through lidded eyes, takes his hand and pushes his door open.

Ted traces from Jakarta, to Berlin, to New York on her smooth skin with his lips, enjoying every pleasurable sigh and light exhale that escapes her lips and makes her chest rise. His finger trace downwards, and up into her with two fingers. He cuts off her moan with his lips on hers, matching his rhythms carefully. Her body rocks and quivers under him. His name whispered on her lips sounds divine.

Soon though, as she always does, she turns the tables on him. Her unpinned hair tickles his face as she straddles him, leaning down to brush her lips against his throat. She makes it clear: now, it's his turn to moan. Laura captures his eyes and grips his hands as they move together. He sits up with her wrapped around him, pulling her closer, and places the sweetest butterfly kisses on the expanse of skin over her collarbone and on her breasts.

They test each other, challenge each other, and it's not perfect but it's intimate and reverent. Each kiss, each touch, is devotion. Meaning. Passion. The promise of things to come.