We have time is more soothing from a man who rewound it to buy her more than it might otherwise be — he’s a rifter, this war never ends, her ex-husband doesn’t even remember their relationship. How much fucking time do they have?

He says they do and she believes him.

She lets herself believe him, lets herself do that without unromantically picking it apart, just taking it as read and rolling over when he tells her to, her elbows and knees finding purchase in the bedding, the latter sliding apart as her hips rise, exhaling when she feels him against the back of her thigh. Her wings shift as she spreads them out, fluttering in her own peripheral vision in a way that hasn’t stopped being a little disorienting yet, and they flex in tandem with the way her cunt clenches around nothing, impatient.

The way her shoulders shift, he almost certainly knows what she’s doing before her hand is visible between her legs, a thing it had taken approximately thirty seconds the first time they’d ever done this to figure out he enjoys—

“We haven’t got to be anywhere today, right?” is probably not actually as true as she’d like it to be, but right now it feels impossible anything else could be as important.