Gideon has only imagine in the very darkest of cold nights, that one of those days, when Harrow has her flat on her back-

But no, this isn't that. This is soft, and sweet, and somehow even warmer than the bath, despite her damp hair cooling on her head.

And then it's over. And Gideon misses it. Misses the touch. She wants to be touching Harrow forever suddenly. But instead she lets Harrow pull back. She pulls on her own shit without a bandeau.

"Cool," she says, feeling more-or-less as delirious as she'd been when laid out on the tiles.