Focus through the knife-edged heat in my blood, coiling tight and needy in me, enough to lift my head, catching the quiet satiation on Slade's face, on Wintergreen's.

Ragged, uneven sound of my own breathing in my ears making it impossible to hear anything else, tremors in my hands where I have not let go of Slade, but I can (barely) think enough to note their expressions, and to be grateful for anything bringing Slade so much peace.