Did you? (She wants to touch him now that he's said that but thinks of him in his plate, walled off save for his hands, his face. That's okay. It will be nice to take his hands, but only once he's finished stroking his thumb across her pulse, and it's not like she doesn't enjoy the meticulousness with which he makes sure every strand is drawn back into the collection at the nape of her neck.

Wisely,) The only reason I shouldn't be told so often is that I'll end up walking around like I own the place.

(But on a more sincere note, tone softening accordingly,) Thank you. (Been a while since Gela felt beautiful — or even at all desirable. They all saw her struggle through recovery for months; Clarisse even purportedly watched the demon melt its copy of Gela's face completely off, so—

His palm on her back steadies her body's sway.) Your hands are so warm, (she comments. From the exercise?) They're nice.