The lack of haste to tell him that he’s wrong is probably enough of a confirmation that this is in fact exactly the right track— she rubs her thumb in restless circles against his skin, half for his sake and half for her own. Half because he’s reminded her of he has hands, and that she’s touching them, and that they are not entirely navigating unfamiliar territory. It’s a little reassuring, remembering her own words to him. Remembering how little it has mattered to her that the version of him in her bed isn’t the physically whole one he remembers, because it’s him, still,

“I don’t want to be celibate for ten years about it,” she says, and almost immediately feels petulant and foolish for it, pulling a face and then burying it in his shoulder. “I know you don’t mind, but—”

How to find the words. That she wants to feel like her skin is her own again, yes; that she wants to feel wanted in it, too, that she’s vain and stupid and what if he finds her stranger and less beautiful. What a small, stupid thing to need so badly.

She says, into his skin where his sleep shirt has slid sideways with their entangling, “You know, first it was the rage demon. And then it was the wyvern, and then it was fucking ancient Arlathan spirits and at what point does well, I still think I’m beautiful become just, delusional—”

Her voice gets smaller and more embarrassed the longer she speaks, until she stops.