Saints save her Gideon steams like fresh tea. The towel doesn't reach around her and there's still a sliver of warm-toned flesh visible. The side of her abs, a hip, some thigh...

Harrow swallows visibly and turns to snatch a comb, running it through her stringy hair so it's smoothed back over her head.

"They brought spares for us," she gestures behind herself toward a shelf with two sets of neatly folded cohort-issue clothes. One in several sizes larger than the other. Is she watching Gideon in the mirror as she combs? Maybe.