She moved.
The compelled movement of someone who had received information that required a physical response. She leaned forward. Both arms around him again — careful this time, the measured care of arms aware of fractured ribs and bandaging, the gentle hug of someone who was trying to offer something without adding to the damage.
Her breasts again — the warm, full press of them against his chest, the heavy softness of them through her dress against the bandaging. Her belly against the edge of the bed. Her chin on his shoulder.
"How have you managed it," she said. Quietly. Not a full question — the incomplete sentence of someone who was feeling something they couldn't finish articulating. "Until now. By yourself."
His hand on her back.
The slow arc again.
The warmth in the room — two degrees above what it had been ten minutes ago, below the threshold she could consciously detect.
His other hand.
