Tuesdays

She kisses the back of his hand and he sighs despite himself.

The way it's romance, and also entirely not, the way it's a dimension entirely orthogonal to the Special Inquisitor's routine but also not at all out of place, in being that.

When Mòrag looks up, Flora's propped her chin on a closed fist, knuckles exactly caught between rounded and square.

"You have very nice hands," she says casually. The emotion that tinges his cheeks thereafter isn't a blush, no, but it's...

It's entirely welcome, even if it is a little bit uncomfortable. As all newly mundane things are.