It is a very suggestive place that they find themselves in now. And yet it’s still a slow-building thing, handled carefully. He’s no stranger to dry spells; the car crash, his body morphed and changed and unfamiliar, the chronic pain dulling everything else. Gwenaëlle’s always had a stronger libido than him, and this entire year had largely been her coaxing him out of it and reminding that he did, in fact, have urges and desires.

And the shoe’s on the other foot, this time. First it had been her injuries themselves — a doctor’s stubborn prescribed bedrest — but then, as time went on, he had noticed where their sex life lapsed, conspicuous for its absence. The wings. Those robes, wrapped around her shoulders at night. It’s not a thing he misses overly much, in contrast to having her presence alone, her conversation, her wit.

“I don’t mind,” Stephen says quietly. They haven’t actually talked about it yet. He needs to say this. “You know I don’t mind, right?”