As she starts to move in earnest, "Gods," he sighs, because there's no single Maker in Tassia, and only some of the gods are so equally disinterested.

He keeps his arms around her, not so much holding on tight but just holding. Giving her something to lean into, to push against, to steady herself in while still moving. As she picks her pace, Loxley matches it—slower, gently, necessarily less, but that stretch and tighten of muscle feels satisfying and indulgent too.

Praise sinks a warm, internal shiver through him, fingers curling into palms behind her back. The next exhale isn't quite a laugh, and the smile that goes with it is brief. Like he doesn't know what to do with the things she's saying, the feeling of her hands on his face, save to just let it sink in as sure as everything else they're doing to each other.

He swallows, collecting his words, "I'm supposed to be," a hitch, a sharp breath in, words released in a rush, "admiring you, remember?"

It doesn't sound like complaint.