Her sigh is slow and more air than sound, breathed out against his collarbones, her body fit lissome to the line of his, her foot sliding up his leg like they're interlocking parts of some clever dwarven contraption, or, no - no, like rose vines cultivated to grow together, blooming different colours. Lovely things that don't keep secrets, except,

“You'll peel everything back from me and find there's nothing left underneath,” and it rings hollow where it should have been a joke.