Gideon picks her up like she's weightless, and instantly she feels light-headed with sudden lust, dizzied by the lack of control and half-ready to yank it back. It's ridiculous how Gideon can unman her so easily. She feels uncomfortably aware of her body, the bite of the counter on the back of her knees and the flex of her hips as Gideon moves closer; the scholar's hunch of her back that clicks audibly as she straightens up and folds her shoulders back, moving her hands to support her on the counter.

Gideon can benchpress her and Gideon is her ancient enemy and Gideon has a sharp knife in her hand. There is a part of her that loves this, and there is a part of her that has held control for seven years that is screaming like an air-leak siren in the recycled atmosphere of Drearburh.

"Y-yes," she says. She has been a martyr to her blush reflex since she and Gideon got together, and without her high-collared shirt, Gideon doesn't have to study her ears; it goes all the way down her pigeon chest.