An exaggerated oof at the press of shin. Impossible to an feign: The prickle of skin behind her hand. Duller, here and there, across some old line of scar. Dull, and not gone.

(It's different now, she says, and doesn't say it's easy. The hard things wear her face, sometimes. Others walk in like strangers.)

Gela doesn't fight, waves pen before sword. And still, there's a notch in her ear to mark his own. There's the divot of flesh where full lips pull and part, the way they do when she's really pleased with herself. The pink press of tongue tip through teeth.

"Dunno if I ever stop worrying," He admits, and thinks how much cleverer this would be to drop. Better to thread an arm through that elbow and haul her in close again. He'd like that. Has some evidence by now that she likes it, too. Least when he finds the right spot. "Maybe 's just looking for problems."

For some way that it isn't better, being here. Gela's warm. Gela's happy. Selfish to puncture that, and maybe that's why he says it now. Just that it feels safe enough to.

"For some way 's not better, being here."

Better, and hard, and her skin is soft when he cages knuckle under palm.