He sighs into the break, awareness dissected and pinned apart in the light of observation or diagnosis or the simple courtesy of a warning passed between them like a note. Opened, acknowledged, signed in a weary look, a few degrees off axis. Why shouldn’t he be a little tired?

Even if she doesn’t look tired at all.

There’s a hungry pull to him that threatens to spoil the carefulness of her kiss towards its end -- his weight shifted behind a lift and plant of one hand to brace himself over her.

The other finds its way to her hip, his thumb curled in to feel after the thicker wind of scar tissue there as he dips to kiss coarse under her jaw, at her throat, at her breast. A glance somewhere down along the path is tell-tale, the fluster on his breath offset by the steadiness of his gaze under the flop of his hair over his brow: he still wants to know her name.