It is a decidedly gratifying reaction to her surprise, and she's still smiling - feline and self-satisfied - when he poses his question, her fingers curling tight in quiet objection to the prospect of anything except getting her way; when they have been patient, and careful, and deserve happiness.

“I don't want it unmade,” she says, very simply. “Not ever, not for anything.” Or anyone-

Her thumb finds the edge of his jaw and the strangeness of imaginary edges; she allows herself this, a moment in time where the thing she most wants to reach for feels within her grasp. All she has to do is step forward, and there: for once, she won't fall.

(She tries to think of something stupid to make herself stop beaming up at him like an idiot, and her mind disobligingly blanks.)