If Harrow could have completed her thought, it might have read something like this:

It feels like I died long ago and have been a construct for many years, a servant of my heartless intellect, and you have brought me back to life. Is that blasphemy? If it is, I do not regret it.

Gideon Nav, my Resurrector; my beloved.

Except probably not, because the part of Harrow that wants to explain itself lacks that kind of eloquence. Harrow's body has been neglected and mistreated for most of two decades; it is a feral creature. But Gideon has been winning its trust, and now it curls up and purrs for her, metaphorically.

Literally, too, once the gasps and trembling pass.