They’d agreed upon the conditions of this arrangement back in Hasmal.

So he doesn’t reach to stop her drawing away, raising up on the kickstand of one elbow instead to better follow her with his eyes while buttons and belts are sorted. That he can’t keep heartache from gripping hollow at his face is a failing of whatever creationary history humans have on this plane, and the fact that it in no way shape or form involved fucking snakes.

But it isn’t as naked as he is, hemmed up in grit and prickle and eventually a shift of his posture into a full sit, after she’s returned her hat to him.

Easy to miss, particularly while otherwise occupied. He has the space of his sit to compose himself in while she rustles about, with a snake spiraling lazy up his arm and a sunburn baking into the knots in his shoulders, the tousle of his scalp.

The nudge of her boot toe finds him self-contained and quiet, his chin tucked.

“Goodbye, Serafine.”