It doesn't go unnoticed, that punched-out breath, the smile that comes and goes too quickly. Derrica marks it the way she'd mark a fracture. She draws a breath to say something else, to tell him again, because Loxley is so easy to praise and because she wants to feel the way that praise settles into his body. The way he shudders beneath her is such a lovely thing.

But instead, there's a hum in answer, Derrica's smile widening as she answers, "Yes, I remember. You were going to outdo all those Marchers and their song."

There's a breathless element to her voice, places where the words waver in response to the shared movement of their hips. Her fingers sweep his hair back from his face, nails dragging briefly along his scalp, thumb light at the base of his horns before her hand returns to it's original position.

"But you have already, you know," is a softer, truer thing. The way Loxley touches her and looks at her and kisses her is it's own kind of admiration. Better even, because of the familiarity between them.