Pursing her lips, she cuts her gaze to that lit cigarette.



There's a quiet shuffling of fabric.




She stretches herself over his body like a cat, hips nudging his, bracing her arms on either side of his chest. She lowers into his field of vision, avoiding the glowing end of his cigarette. The tip of her braid spills over her shoulder, tickling his jaw.

"If it's havin' the bed t'yourself y'like," she murmurs, lips close enough to lightly brush his ear; "I can make sure that's arranged."

She slowly levers herself back to her knees, expression betraying nothing, and moves to her saddlebags.