She had to laugh at that, and flexed her bare toes: they were cold, though she normally wore socks. She loved socks, liked having warm toes. "Blame Nicky," she murmured, nuzzling up and tilting her head so her nose was buried in the crook of Booker's neck and shoulder.

"He stole my socks."

Her fingers threaded into Booker's hair, tugging gently and scratching at his neck. "You love me anyway. Because you're good like that."