Crossing to him, boots discarded behind her, Derrica steps between his knees. She cups his face in her hands.

Maybe she should say something about the impending drunken louts. Or about the tourney. Or about any number of topics that she might tease him about or that would make for light, insubstantial conversation.

Instead, she tips his face up to her, takes a few moments to make a study of him. Loxley is handsome but that isn't anything new. But it's satisfying to be able to put her hands into his hair, see the way his expressions work across his face. She hasn't stopped smiling, had come to him amidst the revelry in good humor and it's kept for the entirety of their walk to the Anvil, and she's still smiling now, even as it softens as she looks him over.

"You aren't all bruised beneath those leathers, are you?" she asks, voice fond.