"Good." She skims her fingers up his sides, mapping out the plane of his chest, over muscle and the cut of his hip. There are scars there, some of which she's sure she's given him, some that he took for her, some that she was too late to take -- it happens. It's like a timeline, reaching back into the past to relive every bloody moment.

Shifting around, she gently places her hands on his chest, pushing him down onto the couch, settling into his lap a little too snug to be by accident, the apex of his hips catching against the button of his fly. "Then I better get started."