He pulls her in where she hasn't already situated herself, bed creaking almost like a greeting to the combined weight of them in the slouchy mattress. The draw-string trousers he'd slipped on in getting to the door are easily push down, kicked aside as he kisses her, as she feels her hands over his chest. No new scars or bruises to speak of, just familiar grey skin that catches oddly silver in low light.

Please, she says. He feels a twinge of something, an odd but fleeting sort of anxiety that perhaps he won't be able to sufficiently give whatever it is she's really looking for, but it passes, and he kisses her throat, and draws her leg over his.

It doesn't take much to think: distraction, perhaps. And he can be distracting. His mouth to her throat and then further down, a hand in her hair, another roaming a bolder path down the front of her body, knuckles brushing over scars, palm pushing against that even warmer juncture between her legs.