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[It would likely be wiser to spend this time preparing for the danger that awaits wherever Two's fragment is hidden. She could be honing her martial prowess, experimenting with her shapeshifting, or trying to control her ability to phase through physical space. She could be doing any number of things that are more appropriate preparation for a mission, because it's not a question of whether she's going to go or not. She'll go because she needs to act—needs to fight—in whatever way she can. This world has not given her magic with which she can aid others in rebuilding. It has spoken to the violence in her heart and given it form. What else is she to do with that form if she wants to right this world and someday return home?

But her mind and heart have been ill at ease since her confrontation with Sleep. No matter how much she grasps for her tethers, they all feel too frail in her hands, set into the too-large recesses where the bonds initially grew. Some have recovered more than others. However, she's been reluctant to make wholehearted attempts at returning most of them to their former strength, knowing now the kind of profound intimacy she would be asking for—and the risk she'd be putting them all at again just by living in defiance of Sleep's claim.

It has left her feeling tumultuous. Uncertain. And she cannot hope to control her body if her mind runs so wild. So this is preparation in its own way, even if it feels trivial as she sits back from the canvas to appraise its whole.

It began with a single deep pit of black, so consistent and thick that the void became her canvas. Atop it, narrow trails of swirling gold, their whimsical curls broken wherever her touch became too light for the brush's tip. Then she ventured into the deep but rich darks in her palette, building in thin sweeps atop the black as if trying to find her way to the colors they're meant to be. Sitting in the hush with Arthur, hearing the faint mechanics of his physical form set against the ever-present thrum of life from the building's plants, she eventually found her way to quick blocky strokes of earthy green. Clusters of little globs of purple. A flat, unyielding expanse of dark cherry along one edge of the canvas. Little spatters from a brush laden in different colors, leaving no two specks the same hue as she flicked them sparsely into the black spaces that remained.

Truthfully, she had been working on something different when Arthur came calling, a series of violent and ragged things that lay on and around the desk in various states of completion, slashes of pitch and smears of red impasto as thick as viscera. They aren't hidden, as it wasn't a matter of discomfort to work on them in his presence. But she paints what she feels. And those feelings sit much further away when Arthur is near.

Hence the new canvas and the fussy blue she's been trying to unify everything with, strokes that soften the edges of each shape and set the whole piece somewhere between calmness and melancholy. She extracts the second brush from her mouth and sighs.] I think so. It's a lovely color, but it didn't take as well to reconstitution as some of the other paints.

[Difficult to work with. But its uneven graininess gives those edges a more transient quality in the end.]

[ Tilting his head, he gets a slightly better angle on the image she's been building up in layers, taking in the dichotomy of stillness and motion split across the strokes. The blue certainly has less consistency from every other color she's used, but there's something about the texture that's intriguing anyway. ] I like the imperfection.

[ But then, that's a quality he's always liked in art. His dreams are hyperreal, neat as a pin; a direct contrast to the types of paintings he enjoyed. Those tended to be messy, full of texture, an encapsulation of emotion rather than anything that was supposed to mirror reality. Much like what Kalmiya's been working on. And has tended towards, especially lately, as he glances around all the canvases set out on various surfaces to dry. Speaking of which: ]

If you're taking a break, there's something I wanted to tell you—about the whole dreaming versus reality thing.

[The corner of her mouth quirks up at his comment as she studies the blue against the cherry in particular, noting the way it brings out the red.] Me too.

[Likely not her most shocking opinion.

For now, though, she's done to it what she wants. So she reaches for her little brush cleaning jar and begins to dip her used brushes in, gently running their bristles over the spiraling coil within until they come out clean. One ear swivels in Arthur's direction as she cleans up, her gaze on her task but the majority of her attention given to her companion.

She delicately dries the first brush on a work towel, voice light.] You've mentioned that a few times recently. Am I missing something important?

Not exactly.

[ Because it's hard to miss something that isn't common knowledge. How would she even know what he's been referring to, when she isn't in dreamshare? ] Do you remember our first conversation? You told me about that pocket dimension.

[ Even with the different methods, that had sounded exceedingly familiar. ]

The reason it'd made sense and why I was able to manipulate Sleep's dream is because that's what I do for a living. Build dreams real enough to hold up under scrutiny. [ Maybe some puzzle pieces will click into place, now. Especially about Mal's untimely death. He doesn't open that wound, focused on the practical reasons for mentioning this. ]

Because the line between can get blurry, we have a way of determining whether we're still dreaming or have two feet planted in reality. If Sleep's going to pull us into a dream like that again, it'll be important to be able to tell the difference.

[She's still cleaning her brushes idly when the pocket dimension comes up, but she slows and comes to a complete stop around what I do for a living, her gaze following her ears in pointing towards Arthur. Her eyes are wide and curious, telegraphing her intent intrigue, though the rest of her expression sits blankly on her countenance.

Some background thought processes begin to recontextualize other things she knows about Arthur, but the forefront of her mind is captivated elsewhere.

Kalmiya is silent for a beat. Then, suddenly lively, she turns her body in the nest of cushions and settles her weight on one arm as she leans towards him—imploring and full of wonder, her tails piqued in alert interest and paintbrushes abandoned.] Arthur! You said your world doesn't have magic! You can do something like that and you haven't told me until now?

[She'll get to the point in a second...]

[ Her gaze follows the swivel of her ears and soon enough, her entire body matches the angle, practically vibrating with curiosity. The fluffy line of her tails are piqued in an interested alertness. If she had whiskers, he's certain they'd be twitching very slightly, the hum of her intrigue flowing to the ends of them.

He gives her a bemused kind of look as she leans closer, shrugging one slim shoulder. ] It's not magic, it's science; it requires a particular device and a chemical compound. I didn't mention it because I can't do it here in the city.

[ Well, he might be able to, the next time there are pockets of Sleep's dream breaking through the veil of reality. ]

I had a hunch I could manipulate things in the dream, though, so I gave it a shot. Turns out, the principles are pretty much the same as what I'm used to.

[Her cheeks puff with air, exaggerating the shape of the pout her mouth makes.] I can't do any of my awesome stuff here, but I still mentioned it! Because it's awesome!

[He could have been telling her so many stories about this! So much excitement she could have been feeling!!

Not that it's not still exciting. In fact, after a beat, her contrived pout falls as he brings some of the newly-connected pieces to her attention—bits of memory from the dream. Dancing to the album he'd put on the sneaky gramophone, the abrupt appearance of the rich cherry door, the streams of sunlight and smell of wisteria, a pocket of bright comfort in the otherwise dark basement.

Her eyes slip back to her current canvas, lingering on the clustered daubs of purple. One ear remains turned towards Arthur, her face faintly warm with wonder.] So that's how you made that room so nice. You've had a lot of practice.

It didn't really seem relevant. [ Partially true. There's a bunch of other things that led to him keeping it close to the chest–how it's used, the technical explanation, the fact he couldn't do it here, how it's been very mixed up with some less-than-stellar memories as of late. Oh and how he's been a little more busy trying not to accidentally electrocute himself with his magic. ]

A bit, yeah. Been about ten years; I was placed on the project when I joined the military. [ At this, his mouth twists wryly. ] The technology has improved a lot since then.

[If the furrow of Kalmiya's brow isn't indicative enough, a tug of disbelief weighs on the tether at the suggestion that it wasn't relevant. It contextualizes so much of what she knows about Arthur. Some things are particularly illuminated; even if she can't make out the full shape of them yet, the specters of Mal that have haunted him are cast in a very different light now. She can see new corners from the intimate look she's gotten at his grief.

Her eyes remain fixed on her painting, as if she's seeing that in a new light now too.] I wouldn't call ten years of anything irrelevant to someone's situation.

[However, that's not really the point right now, so she decides to leave it at that and move back to the matter he'd initially been intending to broach: his strategies for telling a dream apart from the waking world.] What's your very scientific method, then?

[ Obviously, Kalmiya takes issue with his statement over whether his dreamshare skill had relevance. He can feel her disbelief over the tether before she ever utters anything. And well, she does have a point—whether he could do it here or not, it's part of who he is, at this juncture.

Still, that part of the conversation is, perhaps, for later, since she loops the topic back around.

With a sense of déjà vu, he pulls the translucent red die out of his pocket, rolling it a bit in his palm. ]

We use totems. Should be a small object, unique in some way, and weighted. [ Tilting his hand, the die rolls forward and he catches it between his forefinger and thumb. ] Mine's a loaded die; it shows different numbers in the dream, rather than rolling the same one. I'm also the only person who knows the exact weight and feel of it, so I know it can't be replicated by someone who just sees it.

[Though she'd been eyeing the paint strokes of her piece, the movement in her peripheral as he reaches into his pocket coaxes her line of sight back. It lands on the die—an eye-catching red with a see-through quality like glass, though the speed of its roll down his hand suggests it's something lighter. Probably something like the plastic she's seen so much of since arriving in the city.

For a moment, she's fixated on the die, face suddenly distant with contemplation. There's a tug at her end of the tether that's not unfamiliar to Arthur, though it doesn't pull with such force at the weakened connection; yearning, homesickness, fond recollection.

The tips of her tails flick in the beat of quiet she takes as she lingers on the small object. The totem, as he calls it. Then the tilt of her head becomes curious, pulled back to the present from whatever remembrance had her so captivated.] So, you think I should have something like that? I'm afraid I'm not very good at crafts.

[ Kalmiya's expression shifts from curious to something a bit more pensive. With their tether being less tuned in as it was before, he only gets a gentle kind of rustle across the connection. Remembrance or nostalgia. Arthur doesn't ask about it right away, tucks that bit away as her face swings towards bright interest in the die again. ]

It would be a good idea to have one, yeah. [ Considering it tends to work the best in telling a dream from reality. He hasn't come up with a better way yet. ] You don't have to make one. I modified this. The architect I worked with on a job modified hers, too. Our extractor used a small metal top—it would spin forever, in a dream, and never topple over.

[Her thoughts skim briefly over the surface of tinkerers she's known; a boss, a chaperone, a classmate. Any one of them would probably be delighted to let her use their workshops for something like this. Again a dull ache pulses in her heart, rippling out into the moment of quiet she takes as she considers his proposition.

The idea that it must be an object with which you are the only one intimately familiar isn't a challenging one. Kalmiya has kept many things close to the chest, including the tangible. What gives her pause is the implication that this method has been a reliable one even here in Manhattan. When she thinks of being in Sleep's presence—of the words that came even before her tethers were rent from her being—she's not sure that a special trinket could anchor someone in their own reality if Sleep wished otherwise.

Wilting thing. Never loved. Always used.

How could she keep something like the weight of a die safe when the weight of her own heart was measured so easily?

Remembering how poorly he'd reacted to her words when woken from his nightmare, how insistent he had been on making sure she wasn't dreaming when she woke from her own...she hesitates to voice her doubt in this moment. At least not in so many words.

Instead her gaze wanders to the unfinished canvases of red and black that litter her desk space.] If it would be a reassurance for me to have one, I can figure something out.

It wasn't Sleep's dream we were traipsing around in, though. It was One's.

[And he's a lot easier to fool, if his devotion to Sleep is any indication.]

[ There's another twinge across their connection; it's like pressing on a bruise, a sharp pinch followed by a dull throb. Judging from her faraway expression, she's probably thinking along similar lines as he has in the past: all of the people she knows who were handy or crafty, who'd maybe done something like Ariadne had with the dremel and her totem. ]

It would—[ He pauses, sorting out how he wants to say this. Brows knitting, he follows her gaze towards the darkly painted canvases, letting out a deep sigh. ]—I'd feel more reassured, if you did.

Whether it's One's or Sleep's, it doesn't really matter. Spend enough time in a dream and it can become your reality. Back home, some do that by choice.

[ Yusuf's dream den comes to mind, all those people who go there to dream their lives away, day in and day out. Attention shifting, he focuses on the translucent die in his hand, fiddling with the plastic, watching it occasionally catch in the light and bleed red across his skin. ] Others don't. And when they finally wake up, they think they're still dreaming, that all the trappings of reality don't apply to them.

[Her lips part, millions of questions at the tip of her tongue, inherently both childishly contrary and genuinely curious: if it's been long enough to be a danger to you, to become your reality, why would you think to question it by checking the totem? Even if you did, what would waking up after something like that do to you? Would that be better than staying in the dream if it's a peaceful one? A fulfilling one?

Don't you think it's time to wake up?

For half a breath, she freezes. Thinks of auburn curls and lavender and the gut-wrenching freefall. Arthur's reflection taunting him about what was real and what wasn't.

She closes her mouth again, quiet. Her attention drifts back to the die as he fidgets with it, expression neutral in its contemplation. A breeze rustles the trees at her end of the tether, the crowded wood and cluster of the canopy concealing what lives within, whatever it is she's turning over as he does with his token.

It's just a beat of silence, of tacitly acknowledging what he's just shared with her about dreaming in his world. And then, as easily as autumn leaves fall:] I'll make something. Do you have any suggestions? It doesn't matter if you know what the object is, so long as you don't know the details of its function, right?

[There's still doubt within her that it will be of any use to her in One's dream or of any aid in Sleep's. That doesn't matter, though. The important thing is that it's important to Arthur. If it helps him, it serves a worthy enough purpose.]

[ Curiosity bubbles across their tether, the sound of her contemplation like the rustle of leaves, the distant but powerful rush of a river. He can't quite tell what questions sit on her tongue, just that there are plenty. And, well, why wouldn't there be? Certainly, if he didn't know anything about dreamshare, he'd want some answers too.

All of that seems to come to an abrupt halt, a chill wind blowing—the kind that froze one's blood as soon as they stepped outside. Before he has a chance to tilt a concerned look in her direction, she's already moving on, the unspoken queries seeming to evaporate. ]

The function being known doesn't matter all that much. It's the feel and weight of the object. [ With a small motion, he rolls the die loosely in his palm. ] Mine, for example—someone could see it and with enough observation, figure out how to replicate the visual effect. But, as soon as I picked it up, I'd know it was wrong, because the weight distribution would be formed from their assumption.

[ Not a situation he's found himself in, just yet, but it was there, just in case. Fingers closing over his totem, he tucks it back into his pocket, considering her question. After a beat, his expression lights up, a possibility coming to mind. ]

You could use your ring. Even if there were another like it, the engraving would change the weight. Plus, it wouldn't have all the wear of years.

[The moment of the die rolling across Arthur's palm doesn't pass by without bringing the wicked impulse to snatch it up while it's loose. But like many wicked impulses, it's ignored. Or maybe "diverted from" is more accurate.

Because she tries to grab on to the practicality of the statement, the content of the suggestion, but. The way his face lights with excitement is so sudden. So captivating. That's the part she latches to instead, to the point where it's a full throb of a heartbeat before she absorbs the meaning of his words, her heart feeling swollen in her chest.

With the passing of that heartbeat comes weight. Even before it settles fully into her face and shoulders, her ears droop with her uncertainty.] I'm...not sure that Sleep doesn't know the weight of that.

She— [How does she describe the way Sleep held her? The way Sleep knew her in that moment? It turns out that she doesn't, ending up only with a twist of the mouth where words should be. A slightly different explanation eventually comes, though it feels awkward in its vagueness.] —she felt...everything else important to me.

[ For a full moment after he pitches the idea of using her ring, Kalmiya seems to be—intent. But not on what he's saying, not exactly. With the way their tether has degraded, he's having a harder time pinpointing exactly what might be causing the gentle rustle of leaves and underbrush that he gets across the connection.

What he does get, at least, is that there's a warmth behind it.

As he's still puzzling through that, her entire posture changes, starting with the tips of her ears drooping, the slant of them seeming to compress the curve of her spine, too. Frowning, he considers what she brings up—Sleep had held her, in the dream. While he hadn't been in the same room when it happened, that grasp had transferred across the tether. It'd been the iron will of something beyond human, the same as the sear that came afterwards. Would that still count as touching, even if she hadn't actually laid hands on the object? Though unlikely, he doesn't know enough about Sleep's power to make that call or provide any kind of reassurance. ]

Might be best to use something new, then. If she didn't actually hold it, there's a possibility it would still be useable. But—[ He spreads his hands, mouth twisting in dissatisfaction. Sighing, he runs a hand through his hair, thinking it over. ] There's bound to be something in the city. Maybe a jeweler, they'd have tools, at least.

[More disappointing than her thoughts of Sleep, of not being able to use the ring, is having to puncture his enthusiasm for the suggestion. But she's trying to follow the spirit of the concept even if she doubts the possibility of hiding anything from Sleep, particularly after having earned her ire on a personal level.

The thumb of her right hand finds the base of her ring finger, rubbing its pad along the space where she hasn't worn the ring in months, fearful that her unpredictable shapeshifting would cause it to be lost or damaged. She would have liked to use it for this. As it is, the only reminder of reality it gives is that this is the longest she's ever been apart from the person who gave it to her.

Loneliness washes over her in the breeze and then is carried away by the very same wind in Kalmiya's refusal to linger on it, even as she speaks of skills that she wouldn't have if not for someone else very dear to her.] A jeweler sounds good. I'm familiar with some of those tools.

It'll be an ugly little thing, but— [She shrugs one shoulder, glancing back to the gritty smears of blue on her canvas.] There's no charm in perfection.

[ While their tether is weaker than it was, he's still gotten to know Kalmiya well enough to recognize the fidgeting she does with her hands. Her fingers trace the empty space near her knuckle, clearly used to wearing a ring there. Briefly, he wonders why she wouldn't, in the moment. Perhaps she doesn't, when she's painting. Or maybe she didn't want questions? When she'd shown him before, it had seemed to be taken out of a pocket.

Another thought occurs, as he takes in the pensive slant of her furry ears and the sway of her tails: shapeshifting with the ring on might damage it. And clearly, it meant a lot to her, so, not something she would want to risk. As he thinks it, he gets that twinge of loneliness across the connection. Truly, it isn't that strong, but he's familiar enough with it to know the label. In typical Kalmiya fashion, she doesn't let it linger. ]

Should be one close by. I've got a few more tools to fill in the blanks, if they're missing anything. [ They'd been in his hand, when he'd awoken in the Guggenheim; a small, well-organized pouch of tools meant for slightly more delicate workings. He thought they might have come from Sleep, but with the latest reveal of One being the dreamer, perhaps he had a different benefactor. What they meant, he isn't sure.

Either way, he grants her a small, crooked smile as she looks over her paintings. ] Perfectly misaligned or something like that. It'll work better with some flaws to it, honestly.

[The discussion of tools draws her eye back to the brushes abandoned in by her canvas; with her immediate excitement abated and more complex realizations settled for the time being, she reaches down to finish her task. As she swishes and dries each brush, Arthur's humming thoughtfulness and little smile in her peripheral, she gives a fond chuckle.] Might want to supervise if you're going to let me use yours. I've never been left unattended in a workshop before.

[Well. She was once. And got very close to setting off an explosive failsafe on a set of anti-magic wrist cuffs.

Those were extenuating circumstances, though.

She's exaggerating her general destructiveness, anyway; she handles her own brushes delicately enough, and she'd never treat a friend's possessions with less care than her own. Her grip is gentle as she gathers them up with her palette and then rises out of the nest of cushions to set her supplies back at her desk. Lightly,] Think that's all the painting I've got in me for now. Unless you have any requests.

I doubt you'll break anything; paintbrushes are way more delicate than a screwdriver. [ But, he isn't turning down the possibility of supervising. At least, he'd want to accompany her out of sheer nosiness if nothing else.

She reinforces his confidence in the care of her motions as she goes about cleaning her brushes off and drying the bristles of excess water. They're gently gathered up and placed back where they belonged alongside her palette, set out in a way that would let them continue to air dry. His eyebrows raise as she asks if he has requests, though, and he tilts his head, looking over her paintings with consideration. ]

Not at present. It's more interesting to see what you do on your own. [ Besides, he can't really think of what he'd want to have displayed on a canvas. Maybe he'll think of something another time. Either way, he's touched that she made the offer—art took time and energy. ] Although, I could think of a request unrelated to painting.

[ His gaze slants away from her paintings and towards her instead, cautious interest sparking in his expression. ]

Is there a reason you've been holding back, recently? [ While he can certainly make some logical guesses, he wants to hear it from her instead of filling in the gaps. Before One's dream, he wouldn't have said they were very platonically affectionate, aside from a couple standout moments. Their sexual expression, though, had formed a natural kind of chemistry. Arthur hadn't expected her to bounce back immediately after what Sleep had done, but something about her felt—tightly wound. Contained. Things he didn't associate with Kalmiya in the least. ]

[Even as someone often interested in the processes of others' passions, she has a hard time grasping it when that interest is reciprocated. Moreso now in her shaken state, when she's still trying to pick up some of the scattered pieces of her confidence.

As it turns out, that pertains to his request even though it isn't art-related. Even before he asks, before she turns to meet his eye, she senses his gaze on her, a weight in the air and a spark on the tether. One of her ears flicks, sensitive to the change in the room. The anticipatory prickle at the back of her neck echoes at the base of her spine, fluffing the fur at the base of her tails, which have gone still in her sudden alertness.

Perhaps without that chemistry, without the tether, she would ask for clarification. There's a lot she's been holding back recently while she adjusts to this new understanding of what existing in this world means for her and the people she cares about. However, he refers to something specific: something she's been trying to set aside while she recalibrates, excepting the occasional reprieve of Toki's easy affection. Having it noticed—and being noticed now, in this moment, by someone she's still very much attracted to—brings a faint, flustered warmth to her cheeks.

While she wasn't expecting the question, it's clear that it's been on her mind from how short the pause is that precedes her answer, like she might have already thought about needing to explain herself.] It seems like a lot to ask in light of everything we know now.

And I'm— a little sensitive at the moment. [In many ways. Though especially to anything that might lead her back in the direction of that painful solitude—such as rejection, an irrational but painfully present fear lately.]

[ Kalmiya turns to follow the flick of her ear, clearly attuned to the sudden shift in the conversation. When she does, there's a bronze-pink flush across her cheeks. At this, his eyebrows go up marginally, surprised to see the question left her feeling flustered. It's not that he thought it an impossible emotion for her, just that she had a high tolerance for most things that would normally make people shy away.

Her answer, though, is much in line with what he knows of her. Because that's a trait of Kalmiya's he likes immensely: she's thoughtful. Their tether had been borne under the red moon's influence, something they hadn't known until they'd left that physical entanglement with mental impressions of each other, a lingering connection that stayed. Of course, they hadn't strayed from it, even with the knowledge in the aftermath.

That aside, he gets the faint sense of fear from her end. It's a quiet kind of rustling, buried underneath the light way she mentions being sensitive. For a moment, he frowns, turning it over in his head. He doesn't think she's afraid of Sleep—not even after the altercation. They share a similar disdain for deity figures, though he thinks hers runs much deeper, based on the glances he's gotten of her past. Could she be afraid of everything being severed again? Maybe. It would fit.

Though, it wouldn't be the fear of the pain or the punishment, the more he thinks on it. No, he remembers her mirror, how it taunted and jeered, asking what made her worthy of love. Below her feet lays a canyon of blackened loneliness, one she resolutely looks away from. Sleep had forced her eyes downwards, showed her the abyss she's worked hard to build a bridge over by forcibly cutting off her connections. He'd only gotten a small taste of that, when he and Sharon woke up to find a gap where Kalmiya had once been in their mind's eye.

That was the heavy pit of truth, sitting like a stone and weighing her limbs down. Fear she'd be an island again, that any previous tether would turn it down if offered again—because no longer could they claim ignorance. In perhaps other circumstances, he would consider that the path forward. Why would he want to be emotionally tangled up with someone he hadn't known that long? His relationship with Kalmiya isn't a normal situation, though.

So his frown eases up, expression toeing the line of mischief. Across the tether, as weak as it is, there's a warm hum, as serious as it is understanding. ]

Then I'll ask: how do you feel about casual sex? [ It feels right, to make this a cyclical conversation. ]

[Though not a force enough to stay her candor in the first place, the buzz of worry persists beneath her admission into the beat of quiet that follows. The electronic whir she's so accustomed to is fainter over the tether than in her sensitive ears at this proximity, the pulse of his artificing magic louder than his thoughts in the too-empty mental space they share. Though her posture remains neutral, eyes settled somewhere amidst the nest of cushions, the twitching of her ears and tails give her away, too-attentive little flicks as her senses try to compensate for what her intuition can't pick up.

It's the warmth that pulls her gaze to Arthur, which does little to ease the flush in her face when she catches that edge of mischief. She knows him well enough by now to know what's coming, though the way he chooses to ask catches her off-guard, prompting a bubble of laughter both disbelieving and amused. Claws clack restlessly atop the surface of her desk as she tries to tamp down the intensity of her relief in the moment afforded by that laugh. Reckoning with the deep yearning for the former strength of their tether is a bit much for the present moment, but she can't entirely avoid it in the wave that washes the tension from her body, held in such subtle increments that she hadn't noticed it until it was gone.]

Positive, on the whole, [she answers once her laughter ebbs, turning to face Arthur fully. She folds her arms over her chest as she leans her weight back onto the desk's edge, playfulness softened by sincerity as she continues.] Though I don't know how casual it is at this point.

[She still has no name for what it is, despite her suggestion that she'd eventually find one. Truthfully, she feels little drive to understand its exact nature, nor to risk placing expectations on it by ascribing an ill-fitting label. But she knows it's something intimate—something important. It's gone well beyond the realm of impulsive physical gratification. And if it's worth having, it's worth acknowledging as something serious. Something worth the fear she feels over losing it.

A curious tilt of her head. A hopeful lick of heat along her spine, her tails swishing slowly.] You're really still interested?

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