That little revelation completely tracks with everything he knows about Gwenaëlle Baudin, but it’s still a surprise—

So he laughs a startled laugh behind her, above her, and his knuckles dig into her shoulderblade. “Lech,” Stephen says, but it sounds warm and fond and not real censure. It’s all part and parcel of what he likes about her: the way she keeps knocking on the door of his comfort zone, needling him out of it, nudging him along. They’re both learning and changing.

“And— I think this might be enough on your back. Good enough for government work. I’m not straddling you in public, as interesting as that might sound.”

He rubs the last of the makeshift sunscreen into his own hands, wiping them off until they’re clean, and then withdraws to settle back down beside her again, seated with his legs stretched out on the rocky beach. And if it sounds a little like throwing in the towel and admitting defeat, well, it is; he knows when he’s about to be hopelessly outmaneuvered, and doesn’t trust himself with whatever card she might have played, or might yet play. She’s a hazard.