She rarely hesitates like this, and so he feels it in that heartbeat of a pause, where ordinarily Gwenaëlle is a creature of such immediate want and gratification.

But she finally hauls that nightgown off, and those insectile wings are immediately arching, visible behind her, opening and unfurling like long-coiled muscles unfolding. Arms stretching after a long time spent motionless. This first time of theirs isn’t happening at night, where she could wreathe herself in shadows and almost pretend that she hasn’t been changed; here, Stephen has the time and space and lighting to finally stop and look at them properly.

He’d seen them newly-made and disconcertingly fresh, but despite literally living together, she’s successfully kept them under wraps more often than not, only occasionally loosening them even around him.

He could ignore the wings, attention going straight to her bare tits, but he doesn’t. This is new territory, when he used to know every inch of Gwenaëlle: each scar, each chapter in the book of her. And so, derailed and experimental, Stephen reaches out and runs a fingertip along the edge of iridescent wing, testing to see how it feels; how sensitive it might be, if it hurts, if he’ll have to avoid any incidental contact at all during a roll in the hay. Re-learning her.

“Is that alright?” he asks, voice still quiet.