"You cared about if I wanted to be hit," she says softly. To her that's a genuine kindness, one that always wrongfoots her, one she never expects.

This is such a bad idea, and she knows it. She should lean back, get them some breathing room. But he doesn't, and he hasn't, and all she has to do is lean a little closer.

She has ideas floating in her mind, as weak as gossamer, and she could maybe turn them into shapes if she could think, but he's looking at her like he is and it reduces her to instinct.