She knew that. She knew it the first time she came to visit, that they had no locks.
She wraps her arms around his waist and sways with him a little.
"In my world," she says, "among the kind of road-people we were, there was a ceremony of giving keys. For those who had no place to own keys to, it was a symbolic gesture, but what made it really important was that for most, to give someone keys was to promise them a safe place -- not just hospitality, but to grant them effective ownership of a roof and a bed that would always be waiting. Soren, when your whole life is contained in the trunk of a car, and packed up and moved hundreds or THOUSANDS of miles every few days or weeks or sometimes, rarely, three or four months... having a spot on the map that will always be there for you to sleep in even when you've got NOTHING is such, such an important gift." She moves her hands to his and holds them, the key pressed between their palms as she looks into his eyes. "You know I won't leave this shop. It's my livelihood and my home and I love it, and people depend on it to be here and to be a home as well as a place of business. But baby... if this is you giving me permission to go to your island whenever I please, and to stay when I will, I will accept it. I want to be with you sometimes like that. I could set aside one night a week, or two, when I live at your place..."