That they are sensitive isn’t news to her, not when she’s been methodically binding them to her back daily with a newly constant awareness of the pressure of her clothes, her own body heat— but she hasn’t, really, allowed the kind of exploration that he’s engaged in now, even for herself. Finding the most comfortable way to keep them concealed is miles from the way she realises, her mouth opening with surprise, that she can feel the approach of his hand before he’s touched her only in the way it disturbs the air, a pre-emptive caress.

“…yes,” she says, not immediately. “I— ouais.” It’s an entirely different kind of sensitivity; not bad, not even odd, exactly, so much as momentarily disorienting. And a bizarrely thrilling reassurance: on these rare occasions she can be this vulnerable, she’s going to be really fucking difficult to sneak up on.

The way she relaxes is still more deliberate than it was, the last time they were this close, like this. Too many things are happening in her head and only most of them are about Stephen,

but that is still a priority, folding herself in nearer partly for the pleasure of it and partly to allow him easier reach, if he wants it. A better look, over her shoulder. The slide of her hand down his abdomen probably isn’t going to make focusing any easier, though.