Affection threads through her echoed, “Good morning to you, too,” any disappointment she'd felt at the slow-moving crash of exhaustion unraveling whatever they'd hoped for their evening effectively dissipated by how very, very good it is, actually, just being together. Enough, then, to be comfortable and comforted by curling up together, easing into familiarity like heavenly bodies with patterns of orbit, into and out of reach.

It's given her time to think, though. Turning over the remains of the chaos; considering their own conversations. How much about her is known, broadly and to him, and how much of himself she has been patient and watchful for and still doesn't know—

She starts to move. It is not, in fact, to let him roll over or get up; she follows her ankle with her knee and sprawls lazily on his back, chin against his shoulder, one of her slowly unraveling braids falling to his upper arm as she insinuates herself into a position that is not unpleasant (her shift is thin silk, warmed by her body, slippery between her breasts and hips and his back) if sort of heavy and not immediately easy to extricate from, “It occurred to me this morning that if I'd asked you the sort of personal questions we were all using to test each other that I wouldn't have known nearly as many of the answers as you do, reversed.”

It's not not a test, that she leaves that hanging instead of continuing down the obvious path of so cough it up, Stephen.