"Did I?" she nearly purred, curling close as he rocked back. "S'all that hospital food." His scent bloomed around her, sticky sweet, like old coffee at the back of her throat. She petted him, stroking down his bare chest, pressing her face against the hard plane of his pectoral muscles.

It wasn't a good smell. She petted again, trying to soothe. "S'okay. S'okay, Coyot. We're--"

She hesitated, opened an eye, and peered at his chest. "You are not wearin' a shirt." She wasn't sure if that was a protest or a pleased discovery. Her hand rose, fingers tickling at the hollow between his collarbones before sliding down again, over the strips of color suddenly broken off, fresh pink skin, hard muscle, and lines where the tattoo reappeared, as if it were just hidden by flesh-toned bandages.

She tried to tip her head up. It sagged back against his bicep, and she left it there. "You smell better without a shirt."