That is terribly sappy, but it makes her heart feel close to bursting anyway; she beams down at him, her palm over his heartbeat, her body pressed against him. Maybe this won't go anywhere and maybe it will, but what matters is-- she loves him; and he ought to know that.

And so she takes the opportunity as offered, letting her hands roam; she traces his broad shoulders, the dusting of hair on his chest, the lines of taut muscle backing up his stories. She tangles her fingers in his hair and kisses his neck.

No urgency. Just fond, slow attention.