Her laugh is warm and low and shifting as she shifts, rolling playful obedient onto her back to better display the results of many afternoons intent handiwork—lifting her hands above her head to elegantly elongate, book duly surrendered. The rest of their day has been anything but theirs, and this, at last, is the reason it's all worth it. Or: he is, and she likes nothing so much as having him near her.

“Do you like it?”

A beat.

“My veil.”

(Of course she couldn't help herself. She's sure he's already figured it out. Nevertheless—)