With one hand wound into Loxley's sash, Derrica levers herself up over him to settle into his lap. When he leans up to shed his tunic, she takes the moment to draw the sash away entirely, and then remains, weight carefully balanced.

There is only a moment to consider him, think where she would like to put her hands, before he leans up to her. The sash is still in hand when she slides her arms around his neck, cups his nape, crowding in against him as Loxley's hands slide across her skin. The sash trails down his back, over his shoulder, as her palms slip from his nape to his face, clutching him close before she smiles against his mouth and tells him, "We match," before one hand drops to guide his palm around to her stomach.

Was this wound not as deep as his, or was it healed faster? (Did Richard heal Loxley then, or was it someone else? Who had he been with? What kind of fight was it?) But someone had once tried to slice her open, and the evidence of it, that raised strip of scarring, is easy to mark.

"Lift this off, please," follows after, soft direction that would require her to create some space between them, but—

Not just yet.