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The air around them is hot and thick and muggy, almost heavy enough to hold; the steam’s arms wrapping themselves around Marcille’s body and cradling her, hugging her, all loose and gentle. Her back leaned leisurely against the stone lining of the bath, blonde hair spilling down her shoulders and into the water. Falin, leaning on stone, too, cheeks redder than usual, and a soft smile on her face. The steam creates a fog that floats between them, casting a cloud-white cast over everything Marcille can see, like she’s dreaming.
But, the thing is: she’s not.
Marcille isn’t dreaming. She’s awake, she’s awake and Falin is here, is real. Naked and whole and beautiful and complete. Falin’s here, and, maybe, she’s just now realizing how much it truly hurt that she hadn’t been. Is only now fully aware of the part in herself that died with Falin, now that she’s back, now that the broken piece of her has stitched itself back into place. And now, Falin’s back, Falin is back and she can feel her body sing, happiness swimming from her scalp down to her feet. Falin is right there, the bath water connecting them; she’s right there, she’s right there, she’s right there, Marcille thinks, I can feel her eyes watching me, I love it, I missed it.
She’s enjoying this, the comforting silence lingering between them, the water moving effortlessly, sloshing around them with every small movement, the moisture clinging heavy on her skin like she’s grass glazed in morning dew. And it takes her a second to realize that she’s the one making the water move, her legs moving to creep forward, Falin slowly filling up her field of vision. Her body gliding and cutting through the thick steam wafting in the air.
Falin sees her, she is seeing her. Her wet hair clinging to her flushed cheeks, skin glowing and honey-kissed, eyes wide with stars and soft with admiration, pupils blown like a delighted cat. Marcille's eyes drift to the pink of Falin’s full lips, hones in on where they’re parted slightly, watches Falin’s tongue as it rolls past her mouth and swipes against her lips, the spit shining as she pouts. The hue of her blending with the fog; Falin looks like she belongs in a painting, fuzzy and warm. Looks like she belongs in a dream, something Marcille is always reaching for, something she won’t ever touch.
Falin was a dream. She was, just for a little while. She was, and it felt like agony. And that agony ate her alive, she thinks.
“I missed you,” she sighs, whole body loosening. And before she realizes it, Marcille is sinking down, she’s reaching forward, arms out wide, reaching, reaching, reaching for Falin. She’s met with a body. Her fingers gripping at plump, wide shoulders; smoothing over soft skin. Her Falin is here. Right here.
Falin’s gaze is searing her alive, taking her apart. Her smile is small and endless. It’s forever — Falin’s the only person that has ever looked at her like this, Marcille thinks she’s the only person that can.
Falin’s hands ghost out of the water, slow and patient, water falling from them and splashing around them. Arms come up and bending at the elbows, Falin’s hands and fingers going to overlap with her own. Her chest swells with warmth as Falin squeezes.
And it’s kind of an awkward angle, and it can’t possibly feel very pleasant for Falin, but she doesn’t care. This is good, she thinks, this is good, good, good. Just like before.
“I missed you, too. I missed everything so much.” And she squeezes her hands over Marcilles, like she’s checking that she’s still there. Marcille squeezes her shoulders, and proves that she is. “I think that I missed life, too.”
Marcille bristles at the statement, at the fantasticalness of it all. Head spinning, spinning spinning, and she can’t feel her legs below her, and she’s warm all over, she’s boiling. Falin’s looking at her again. How is this not a dream? Marcille can’t help but let that thought fester, she cannot help it. She can’t help the reserve she feels, it smothers her like the steam all around. She remembers Falin’s gore covered staff that they’d recovered from the dragon’s intestines, remembers holding Falin’s blood-stained skull. From bones to blood. From death to life, hand in hand once more. How can this possibly be real?
“How do you… know?” Marcille’s lips form strangely around the words as she asks, a grimace forming promptly as she finishes. But Falin just smiles, smiles, smiles.
Falin relaxes her arms, her voice cracks a bit as she lets out a groan that makes Marcille's mouth go dry, her tongue whipping behind her teeth for moisture. Her arms fell to her sides and noisily back into the water – and Marcille knew she was uncomfortable, she knew it; Falin is still the same, she still knows her Falin – resting there momentarily before coming back up to grasp at Marcille's shoulders. Mirroring her. Marcille can’t help the breathless giggle that erupts from her throat, she’s giddy under Falin’s touch. She squirms as Falin defrosts her, it’s been so long since Falin’s touched her, and she hasn't forgotten the memories – could never do that, could never forget her – but she has forgotten the feeling. The feeling of being touched by Falin.
And, like Falin can hear her inner thoughts, she squeezes at the skin covering her shoulder. Not hard, but firm, grounding Marcille, tugging her out of her head and right back in front of her.
“I know because. Because I felt nothing.” And Falin’s face scrunched up a bit, in struggle, in pain, maybe. “But when I woke up, there was this aching in my chest. Like I had just finished crying.”
“There’s space in my head between when I was swallowed and right now. It’s a bunch of pitch-black nothingness, but it was long. It feels long. I don’t know how or why it does, but it does. But that nothing was something, right? At least… maybe in this case? That nothing has to be something, because I'm here right now.”
All Marcille can do is nod. She rubs her hands up and down the curve of Falin’s shoulder, slowly covering more and more skin with each scan over of her palm, reaching now for the dip of her neck and the start of her biceps. She watches the rise and fall in Falin’s chest, she watches Falin live right in front of her.
“I was always here, Marcille.” She says it like it’s absolute.
And before Marcille can censor herself, she’s shaking her head from side to side, tears burning at her waterline. She squeezes her eyes shut, the burn persists anyway, the tears spill over. “No.” She thinks of all the days, all the mornings, all the nights, all the times she wished Falin were here, all the times she felt Falin needed to be, and she thinks of every single second since Falin’s death. She missed her that entire time, Marcille thinks she still does – if that's even possible now. “You weren’t. I know you weren’t.” I know you weren’t because I wanted you to be. Marcille can’t help the mucus that bleeds into her tone, making it rough and scratchy, and the tears don't stop burning, they don’t stop running down her cheeks.
Falin releases her, and Marcille bites back a whine. It dies at the back of her throat, gurgles down to her stomach. She blinks up at Falin slowly, looking through wet lashes, the sting spiking and then quickly dissolving. Falin slides a damp thumb underneath both of Marcille's eyes, smearing away old tears and wiping at fresh ones. And after a while, Falin begins to shake her head.
“Yes I was.” She says simply. The hand resting on Marcille's cheek dips just above her breasts, and she pushes her full palm forward into her chest. She presses and presses and presses until Marcille can feel her heart thumping against the pressure of Falin’s hand. “I was right here.”
And before Marcille can say anything, Falin repeats it. “I was right here. Right here with you, with Laios, with everyone that missed me.”
Marcille releases her left hand and presses it over Falin's, hand over hand over heart, where her love is, where Falin is.
Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Falin’s right, of course. Marcille would never let go of her, and that’s all that really makes a person real, right? The fact that someone is still holding on to them?
Marcille feels as her lips break into this wide spontaneous smile. All teeth and gums. Eyes sparkling from the tears. And she wants more. She wants to feel Falin more. Marcille wants to press her and Falin together until she can’t tell where she ends or where Falin begins. Wants to clasp her hands together, fingertips pressing against one another, and dig her nails into the center of Falin’s chest; she wants to split her skin open, carve a piece out and live there. She wants to burrow down into Falin’s ribcage and curl up against her heart, rest against the rhythm of its pulsing.
Her lips are dry. When did they become so dry? She shuffles closer, until their limbs are sandwiched in between their bodies. She can feel the brush of Falin’s thighs, the hardness of her knees, the softness of her belly. Something swims fast in Marcille's chest, something hot and wanting.
“Can I kiss you?” And the words kill her as soon as she says them. Falin’s lips part, and her eyes widen a bit, she takes her hands and rests them at the curve of Marcille's hips. Falin pulls her in closer, until their breasts are touching. Marcille's nipples bud up and she gasps and shivers when they rub slightly against Falin’s skin. She’s always been sensitive.
Falin nods, and then: “Please.” She leans down, and Falin watches as her hair spills over her shoulders, watches as Falin’s eyes flutter shut and as she purses her lips together. Marcille gulps loudly and she’s so thankful that Falin ignores it.
Marcille perches on the tips of her feet, leans up, and forward, and stumbles right onto Falin’s lips. The soft of Falin’s lips sinking onto hers, Falin leaning in, in, in, using her hands to slowly pull Marcille close. Stomachs flush against one another, and she’s trying so hard to ignore the way Falin’s nipples brush against her, the way Falin hums and sighs and leads her. Her heart is jackhammering in her chest, beating, thrumming, vibrating throughout her entire body. Heart beating so fast that she can feel the blood rushing in her head, and she’s spinning in place, spinning, even though she’s still.
Marcille doesn’t quite know what to do next. She doesn’t even know what she’s doing. Just that she wants to do it. She squeezes at the fat of Falin’s hips and drinks in the gasp that sinks from between Falin’s lips. She follows Falin, mirrors the way she opens and closes her lips, mirrors the drag. It’s slow, teasingly slow, everything about this is. Like Falin’s toying with her, eating her, enjoying her, taking her apart piece by piece by piece. She squeezes her eyes shut tight, whimpers, and tenses. Her shoulders locking in place before she can stop herself.
Falin notices immediately, she breaks the kiss and Marcille can’t help but chase her. Why are you stopping? Don’t stop, don’t stop. Please don’t ever stop. Marcille squeezes, runs her hands up and down the sides of Falin’s thighs, a soothing type of motion – or at least that's what she’s trying to convey. Her eyes snap open, and Marcille’s panting, panting, panting like a mutt.
Falin slots herself into the crook of Marcille’s neck, and as soon as Falin’s hot breath hits the tip of her ear, she shudders. A low whine slips from her lips, and her knees buckle, and what is she doing, what is she doing, what the hell is she doing, anyway? Falin’s a little winded, Marcille can hear as she tries to catch her breath, hears the way her mouth clicks closed, hears Falin’s tongue contract as she swallows. She hears as Falin’s lips unstick from each other, and a long, concentrated stream of air hits her ear again. She moans this time, gripping at Falin’s thighs, at her skin, shaking, shaking, shaking.
Falin giggles softly, and then she’s purring into Marcille’s ear: “Relax. Relax for me.”
And she does. What else is she meant to do?
Falin pulls back and they stare at each other, and, and,
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” Marcille deadpans, words flying out of her mouth. Her face scorches at the admittance, at her sudden honesty. “I’ve never done this before.”
It’s weird. It is so weird. All the romance novels she’s read and nothing could have prepared her for this, for Falin, for the real thing. All the fluff and sugar sweet pages of her books could have never prepared her for the burning she feels. For this melting pot of emotions in her gut. For the tremendous heat circling between her thighs as she rubs them together, chasing friction, chasing something. And she’s pleasured herself before, obviously: exploring her body alone, wandering hands touching, grabbing, pulling, rubbing, until she’s gasping and trembling and leaking out onto her fingertips.
But this feels nothing like that, like touching herself by herself. This is something completely different, something completely new. She’s never felt this good before, never in her whole life.
Falin nods understandingly, smiles, and then says, “Me neither.” She shrugs a bit, breath still hitched. “Lets just… do what feels good.”
Marcille’s nodding before Falin’s even done speaking, crashing back onto her lips. A squeak slips from Falin before she falls right back into Marcille. And this time, they melt into each other like ice in the sun, they melt together naturally. Hands exploring, touching with a hint of hesitance, one of Falin’s hands snaking up to cup Marcille's nape. Thumb smoothing over the sensitive skin under her ear; tiny, little circular motions. Marcille gasps, opens the kiss, and Falin’s tongue creeps in slowly. Marcille shivers as she feels the invasion, tilting her head back so that Falin can push deeper and deeper and deeper into her throat. She licks at Falin’s tongue, and pushes her way into Falin's mouth, too. She wants to taste her, Marcille is burning for it.
She laps and glides over the enamel of Falin’s molars, sucks at her tongue, too, just to hear the sound Falin makes because of it. Greedy, greedy, greedy. Falin widens her stance, and Marcille slots a leg in the opening, pressing, pressing, pressing further. Her clit drags roughly against Falin’s thigh, Marcille twitches and moans and squeezes her legs together tight, tight, tight, rocking back and forth, back and forth. Sparks of pleasure burst, and burst, and don’t stop bursting; she’s shivering and panting so hard she breaks the kiss.
Falin groans, pushes her thigh up against Marcille's cunt, giving her more friction. It feels good, it feels so good. It feels so good and she’s not even using her fingers, just humping Falin’s leg like a dog. She feels desperate and a little pathetic, but she doesn’t want to think about that right now, so she pushes it away, lets it float to the back of her mind so it can resurface at another time.
“Marcille,” Falin’s voice raspy and hoarse and full of wanting, “Marcille, please touch me?”
Marcille’s head spins again as the words hit her. She’s dizzy, she’s so dizzy. “Yes, yes of course,” She manages, “How do you like it?”
“Your fingers. I would like you to use your fingers.” And that's when she realizes. Falin's trembling. Her lips glossed over with Marcille's spit. Chest rising and falling and rising and falling. The apples of her cheeks the color of cherries, and her wet hair clinging to the side of her face in strands. She’s beautiful. In front of Marcille, Falin is beautiful. Falin has always been beautiful. Has always been eternal.
Marcille presses a palm to Falin’s abdomen and trails down, fingers catching on the thick patch of hair leading down to her pussy. Falin arches her back and spreads her legs, giving Marcille room to slip her fingers between the space. She reaches down and down until her thumb finds Falin’s clit; she travels a bit further, searches, fingers wandering, and finds her slit, too. She can feel the warm slick oozing out of Falin, even though they're surrounded by water, submerged in water.
She pets at the hood of Falin’s clit, circles lazily, testingly, and Falin jumps against her. Breath hitched and ruined and cracked. Falin’s already bucking and rocking into the hand between her thighs. Against Marcille’s hand. Eyes shut and mouth wide open, the red of her tongue on display, more hot breath hits Marcille’s face as Falin pants. She can smell the staleness of Falin’s breath and it makes her feel crazy, makes her feel, and feel, and feel some more. Her hips clamping around, grinding down, down, down into the meat of Falin’s thigh. The water around them sloshing and splashing loudly in Marcille’s ear, but that's secondary, everything that isn’t Falin is secondary.
She moans, bending her neck and nuzzling into Falin’s collarbone, Marcille's mouth open and sucking at the skin blooming and across the bone. Sucking until Falin twitches, and whines, huffing out little impatient noises. The fingertips of Marcille’s middle and index finger teasing at her entrance, her thumb running up to connect with Falin’s clit again. She grounds the pad of her thumb down, and circles again, and it’s all worth it when Falin cries out. The inside of her chest blazes as her ears drink in the sound of Falin’s voice, and she can’t help but moan. God, god, god, this is crazy, Marcille thinks, because it is.
Marcille slips a finger inside and Falin pulses around her. Her insides wet and warm and tight, squeezing her finger, pulling her further and further in. “Ah, Marcille,” Falin shivers again and squirms, like she’s adjusting to the feeling of Marcille’s finger inside of her. “It’s deep. Don’t think my fingers ever reach that far.” Falin laughs and it sounds like a rasp, she shakes her head before tilting it back. She pushes her hips forward, until she has Marcille's whole finger, down to the joint.
“Falin, Falin, Falin. You feel so, so good inside.” And she does, Falin’s insides hugging at her finger. Pulsing around her. Falin twitches every time she moves. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Marcille cannot handle this.
And, Marcille is a bit ashamed she’d forgotten about her nails. She files them sharp at least once a week. She doesn’t want to hurt Falin. Is she hurting Falin?
She goes to extract her finger, drags it out slowly, but Falin whines. She stops her. She chases that finger, makes sure it stays nestled deep inside her. “Marci, Marci, what are you doing?” Falin slurs, gasps, and then she whines, “don’t take it out.”
Marcille gurgles and bristles and twitches. The pitch of Falin’s voice shooting straight to the core of her cunt. Her hips stutter and she moans again, even though she’s not even the one being touched. She’s burning all over. Burning like a star. Burning like a meteor flying out of orbit.
She swallows around nothing, gulps down air into her gut, sandpaper tongue whipping in her mouth. “Falin, I don’t want to hurt—“
“You’re not.” Falin says, “you feel so good inside me.”
Marcille shutters at that, a new found determination flaring in her stomach. Falin feels good, she’s making Falin feel good.
“Ok, ok, I’ll just,” She shoves her finger as far as it can go, testingly, and a moan is punched out of Falin’s mouth. A chorus of yes, yes, yes flooding steady from her mouth and pooling below them, flowing naturally like a lake moving upstream. And Marcille swims in the sounds, in the feeling, in this moment.
It doesn’t take very long to find a rhythm that has Falin twitching all over, has her arching her spine for more contact. It’s addictive, watching Falin like this, watching her fall apart against her. It’s so addicting. She’s riding Falin’s thigh, fucking her with her fingers, in and out and in and out. She curls up inside her, pressing against her inner walls, and Falin wails. Her hands flying to grip at Marcille's waist, fingers curling in towards her navel. Falin’s hands are huge, she mentally notes for totally not nefarious purposes. Her thumbnails sinking into the soft skin of her core, she hisses as claws cut into her, but she doesn’t care. Can’t bring herself to. This is Falin touching her. How could she ever not want Falin’s hands, Falin’s body, Falin’s skin? How could she ever?
And besides, the pain is pleasure, too, of course. It’s sharp and bursting and almost endless, it rides the waves right alongside that molted hot pit roaring on her gut. Searing and sweet, like burnt sugar on her tongue, like honey boiling over, like the sun beaming down and washing over her exposed skin on a tropical day. It’s sweet like living. Falin is living. Alive right in the bend of her arm, twitching and panting and moaning and alive. Marcille wanted her, mourned her, missed her so much she thought she’d die, wished and prayed over and over and over again for her best friend back, for her Falin back. Her own voice screaming in her dreams, begging, take me instead, take me instead, take me instead. Wished every second of every day for the warmth of her presence back.
She has her, and she’s never letting go again.
The hands at her waist squeeze again before guiding her hips up, Falin rocking her down into the meat of her thigh, bending her knee and angling her leg up, giving Marcille more friction. She tugs Marcille forward, leans her forward, so that her clit feels everything first. “Falin,” Marcille says, like it’s the only thing keeping her from floating away, her only free hand going up to grip at the skin above Falin's collarbone. Marcille digs her nails into the thin skin. Falin whines loudly, hips bucking, Marcille presses wet, sloppy kisses all alongside the sharp of Falin’s chin. Lips grazing every part of Falin that she can touch. Teeth grazing the soft of her cheek and catching every once in a while. Biting gently at the soft of Falin’s face, biting down, down, down, until she’s mouthing over Falin’s collarbones again, dark red spots now fully formed into a messy half circle under her neck, bruises like a darling necklace. And that's Marcille's doing, that’s what she’s done. Her head spins suddenly, leaving her to nuzzle into Falin’s chest, over the constellation of bruises blooming there, and she sees stars. Sees the entire universe curled up in Falin’s embrace.
When she slides her finger out, this time, she clasps her index finger next to her middle and nestles right back inside. The drag is a bit more rough; it’s tighter inside, tighter than before . And Marcille feels everything, the same things as before: the pulsing, the twitching, the molted-hot of her wet insides, it’s just that now, everything is heightened. It’s more, more, more, way more than Marcille can handle. Her insides are tense and tight and everytime Falin drags her over the hard of her knee, she spasms uncontrollably. She can feel her orgasm approaching, her face hot and wet now from the heat of the bath, from the remnants of her tears, and from all the moving, all the contact, too.
“Marcille, Marcille, you’re doing so good, so good,” Falin’s rambling, face scrunched up, eyebrows furrowed, hips squirming and moving in time with the thrust of her fingers. Moving up and then grinding back down all the way to the last knuckle. The heels of her palm grounds directly on Falin’s clit as it twitches and Marcille can feel her cunt throb. “Don’t stop, don’t stop,” a long whine leaves her mouth, “I like it. It’s perfect. Your fingers feel so perfect, Marcille.”
Perfect, perfect, perfect. She’s perfect. Falin says so.
Marcille squeezes her eyes shut momentarily and keens at the praise, curling her fingers up inside Falin, hitting that spot that made her whole body twitch and go limp. She picks up her pace, too, wants to give Falin everything, wants to give her all of it, because that's what Falin deserves. Everything.
Marcille moves her palm in circles and keeps her rhythm going. Her arm is on fire and it kind of hurts but having Falin like this, gasping, tongue cresting over her bottom teeth, sitting on the plump of her bottom lip, it’s worth it. And, oh, Marcille hadn’t truly gotten a good look at her face, but she realizes: Falin’s drooling, too, clear lines running down the side of her chin. And before she can help herself, she lapping at the sides of her cheek, quickly kissing over the slob. And, yes, it’s gross, Marcille knows that, but it’s hot too, it’s sexy. Marcille can taste her, she can, she knows she can. Sweet and salty. It’s fleeting but, at the same time, it lasts.
Falin’s groaning now, loud, wailing almost, and it floods in Marcille’s ears. Floods so heavy she hears it and then feels it, too. She’s gonna make Falin come, Falin’s gonna come on her fingers, in the water around them, she’s doing good, she’s making Falin feel good, she’s, she’s, she’s–
“Missed you.” Falin slurs, voice cracked and ruined and hot, but genuine, too. Soft in a way only Falin can manage. Soft like sheep's wool, soft like the pink that splatters across the horizon when the sun sets, soft like love. “Missed my best friend.” And she sighs, relaxes into her own words, melts impossibly further down on Marcille's moving fingers. She melts and melts and melts, like butter on toast, like chocolate on your tongue, like ice cream off a ladle.
Marcille moans so loud she startles herself. Her mouth finds Falin’s shoulder and she sinks her teeth in with a reverence she’s never felt before. Falin yelps, moans, “Marcille!” She chants her name like a prayer, sobs, too. One of Falin’s hands releasing its death grip on her waist to wrap around her wrist. Falin’s fingers overlap and she can’t help but want them, burn for them.
It doesn’t take much until Falin is coming, body tensing and seizing, mouth forming around loud shouts and broken syllables. Marcille plants kisses along the bruises at her chest, keeping her fingers still and lazily circling the hood of Falin’s clit until she winces and releases one last long sigh. A sigh of true relief.
Falin looks up at her through long blonde lashes, blinds, and then her eyes widen like she’s just come to some huge revelation. “You didn’t finish, did you?” She tilts her head, too, like a puppy, and it drives Marcille fucking crazy. It does, it does, it does.
“Uh, no,” Marcille says, and before she can finish her sentence, Falin’s lowering her thigh, replacing it with a hand, with fingers. She gasps and rocks against Falin’s thumb as she explores, and even though she really wants to come, she lets Falin be curious. And besides, it feels good, too.
Falin slips two fingers in with ease and Marcille burns all over. Burns from the inside out. She burns and burns and burns until all she is is ashes. Falin’s fingers drag slowly in and out, getting Marcille used to the feeling of being full, and Marcille clings onto Falin’s back, sobs Falin’s name into her own ear. Falin hums and coos, pets at her hair, pulls her into her chest and gives her more and more and more. Gives Marcille so much that she’s bursting at the seams, coming undone.
Marcille can’t do anything but take, doesn’t want to do anything but take. Take and take and take some more.
“Come for me. It’s ok, just let go.” Falin speeds up her circling, speeds up her pace, so fast that Marcille doubles over, loses her balance even though she’s standing, leaned into Falin’s embrace. She falls into Falin, just like she always has. “You did so well earlier. Made me feel so good, Marcille.” And her words are too much. Her words are cane sugar pouring into the melting pot, adding to the warm, blissful ooze of pleasure.
“Thank you, Marcille. Thank you.” Marcille keens and gasps. Falin says thank you, she says thank you, when it really should be the other way around, right? Marcille should be thanking her, right, right, right? Thanking her for coming back, for always coming back. For not leaving. For staying.
Marcille's orgasm hits her hard, like a pleasant slap across the face, like a wave crashing over her, submerging her from head to toe. She chokes up Falin’s name before she’s shuttering all over, reduced to a teeth-chattering mess. Her orgasm punches all the air out of her chest as she howls, digging her nails into the skin stretching over Falin’s back, raking up, grasping and pulling and tugging at anything she can reach. And she doesn’t slow down, she lets Marcille ride out her release until overstimulation, until she’s tightening her jaw, until Marcille’s flinching instead of trembling.
Falin presses a long kiss to Marcille's temple as she slips her fingers out of her, Marcille twitching and sensitive against Falin’s body. They melt into each other, and then they melt back into the warm water.
Falin laughs and it vibrates throughout Marcille’s entire body, it makes her want to laugh, too, it tugs and tugs and tugs at her heart strings. “We have to clean up all over again.”
Marcille grins up at her, eyes low lidded and tired and fulfilled, “Yeah,” she says. It’s fine though. They’ve got all the time in the world, don't they?