She turns and so his touch to her back finds a resting place on her waist, and so too does his other hand. He'd thought about continuing to feel uncertain about their mutual boundaries over the past little while, motivated by a desire to afford her some space after all they'd been through and all that had been said, matched against the concern that perhaps space is not wanted and could be ripe for misinterpretation, all of which muddying his own perception of what he, personally, would like,

and then decided that that was an awful lot of overthinking. Today, he thinks it would be nice to hold her in the surf, under the waning sun, and pursues it.

"Good," he says. "Wondering how much the handling of one little rift can be pushed back. Certainly another twenty-four hours won't kill anyone."

He has on, also, a patch of grey-black leather, flecked with water, a hint of decoration in the silver beading along the strap, the way it winds around a horn. He has very nearly gotten to a point of not fussing with it while out and about. It is not, anyway, the thing he is missing that concerns him.

"What about you?"