Her legs bracket him-- more than just the few inches from earlier: her ankles are uncrossed and tucked against his legs like the floor ought to be at his back and her body heavy over his, braced for an almost imaginary interaction-- or whatever's probably just ahead of them. Hard to say when they're tangled up like this. Not just physically, either. Not just the sting of her knuckles from being too tightly wound, but the sting of acknowledging what she'd almost lost. He might never have turned up. She might never have lived long enough to see it.

Stupid things to dwell on (and she doesn't) but they surface all the same under the heat and roll of his tongue and the familiar scent of him where he's too bloody close and she's too bloody breathless to inhale anything but what he exhales.

She does leave marks. Welling, needy sorts. Stark against his skin. But the kiss stays receptive as much as the hand at his hips (lower with each passing second) is insistent when it yanks open the waistband of his trousers.