Immediately, it was stupid not to take her other boot off first—

maker, she doesn't care. His hands are warm and so is the rest of him, almost shockingly so as they rush together; layers of fabric and boned corsetry confine her but he'd been dressed to sleep, warm from the inside of this rumpled bedding, easy to reach. She twists her fingers in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer by it still, the hard — armored, probably — corset between them jabbing into his ribs, bending her knee so she can hitch her foot at the back of his. It feels as if it should feel stranger to do this than it does; she'd recoiled for so long from the idea of reaching for anyone (except—) and now that she's here, reaching—

No, it feels inevitable. Like they were always going to end up here, her cold hands fighting to get under fabric and find his skin, mostly because she wants to touch him but at least partly because she wants to press her cold fingers to his bare skin and make him startle, make her laugh.

It doesn't matter, in the moment, if it's a good idea or a bad idea. It's just such a relief that it's happening.