He’s weathered indescribable horrors by Derrica’s side in the infirmary, but somehow the prospect of this one takes the cake. “Gwenaëlle, I’m not going to Derrica for sex ed, are you joking,” Stephen says, mock-aggrieved-horrified, but he can’t help that laugh still bubbling up under his words.

It seems a fairly safe assumption that rifters can’t get anyone pregnant. If he lets his thoughts drift too far in that direction, he often falls into the trap of remembering that he’s probably more ghost than man — but for tonight, at least, the existential anxiety is kept at bay. He feels reassuringly warm and solid and alive here, entangled in the sheets with Gwenaëlle, sweat drying on their bodies. It’s messy and biological, but alive.