She used to hesitate over his scars, not out of pity, or even horror, really, but out of caution -- unsure whether he wanted her hands anywhere near them, or if it would better or worse to act as if they weren't there at all. Part of her kept waiting for him to register an objection, or convey one with an unsteady breath or an awkward pause. But no complaint came, and as time has worn on... well, she imagines it would get rather tiresome for both of them if she lingered over them any time he had the temerity to take his shirt off around her. Far better to focus on the life they're building than the ones they've lost.

She's trailing little kisses down his neck when he manages his impressively measured response. But it's not so well crafted that he doesn't leave a rather glaring opening for her, and she grins, nuzzling into the spot where his neck meets his shoulder. "You could give me more than that, if you like," she says, before lifting her head to find his lips again.

They're making very little progress towards actually getting her clothes off, but then again, she doesn't mind taking her time. Saoirse's out like a light, and this doesn't have to be some hasty, furtive scramble.