She didn't resist, not this time. In fact, she sank trustingly into the curve of his arm and the ripple of his ribs against the soft give of her skin under the sweater. Abruptly overwhelmed by how much she had given to the portrait and how little she had left for herself, she was happy that he would take care of herself. The spike of fear she had felt to see that trace of darkness in him was fading fast under the strange haze of fatigue and the same illusion she had worked under for weeks while she labored over the portrait. The smell of ripe peach flesh was stronger; it came from her hair, probably the soap she used for it.