They forgot the tea. They remembered the couch's narrow edge only when she slid and he caught her with a hand at her back and a muttered curse.
"Language," Xinying scolded, breathless.
"Blame the architect," Deming replied, and shifted them down to the rug. "Better?"
"Much." She stripped her robe without fuss. He watched her like prayer, but she rolled her eyes at that. "Stop staring like I am going to disappear if you look away for a second."
"Most days, that is exactly how I feel. Like you are too good to be true. Like I am going to wake up from this dream and be back at the Red Demon's camp."
"I will never leave you," she said, softer now. "I am yours just as much as you are mine. If you are dreaming, then so am I."
"Then let's never wake up." He reached for her again. She came to him like muscle memory, like a map that had decided to meet him halfway.
