[ Hei doesn't draw away. Just lets his fingers skate through her hair, nails light on the nape of her neck. Under the harsh tang of hospital air and dried blood, she smells the way he remembers. Sweet, and somehow also wild, a scent he will forever associate with wilderness -- that freshness of winter and a spark of cut grass. Her body feels good too, curvy but strong, and that shape, in his arms, along with her scent, floods his mind with a jumble of conflicted wants. ]

[ He fights it off. Struggles to maintain rationality. Now is no time to lose his head. ]

When we get back to my place. I want to take you to bed. [ Ordinarily he's blunt enough to say I would like to fuck you. But he has a suspicion that might come off as too barbaric. No lie, fucking is his word of choice, and being barbaric has its high points. But there are moments when it shouldn't be referred to as what it is. ] Tell me now if that bothers you. If it does, I won't touch you again. We'll just go back, and you can shower, drink some tea, and crash on the couch.

[ Even if she agrees to the sex, it's her prerogative to change her mind -- during or after. He knows trauma is a lot like alcohol. Too much of it, and you make the shittiest choices. Intimacy can mean something one day, and something else the next. ]