It does help, even as absurd as it makes her feel to admit it, to hear him say so in so many words. So directly, and so sincerely, and frighteningly sexy is a nice thing to hear he’s always thought, and — and it’s a good point, about the tentacles, because,

“I thought your hands wouldn’t get tired that way,”

which is nearly as sweet as it is indicative of a willingness to get down with some significantly freakier elements than, as he says, pretty faerie wings. She’s looked at them less than she might’ve, avoided the mirrors scattered through their home, kept them tucked behind her and beneath fabric as much as she could, done her best to conceal them even from herself. To feel ordinary, instead of to look at what’s been made new of her.

(She remembers how they had prismed the light when she showed them to Isaac, and can think, now in retrospect: there had been some surreal beauty about that, the way the sun had shattered a rainbow through her.)

Lifting her head, finally, she searches his face for the same sincerity in his voice, and, “Thank you. For being patient with me.” For not needing her to rush into anything she wasn’t ready for; for being willing to say the thing she needs to hear.

When she kisses him, it is not with great patience.