Harrow is cold to the touch; icy, even. Ingress would have no way of knowing isn't normal; in a thanergy-rich environment an active necromancer is a furnace, and despite her thin skin and sharp angles Harrow could usually boil a kettle on her back, if that was her idea of a good time. But right now she's an iceberg.

She does not react to the rubbing of her back; perhaps it does not penetrate her hazy perceptions that it is coming from a living source. But upon the kiss her face bursts into flames, ears fire-engine red, and her black eyes go wide.

"Y-yes. Milliways, please," she stammers. There's an ache in her stomach and from parts of her body that Harrow tries to forget exist at the best of times, like her heart.