Her hand was warm.
He helped her up from where she'd been backed against the rock — steady, practical, the same way he'd helped people up in alleys and corridors and wherever else the situation had required it.
She stood.
Looked at him.
Up close she was — he registered this the way he registered most things, as information — extraordinarily beautiful. The kind that arrived before you'd decided to notice it. Auburn hair loose around her shoulders. Honey-coloured eyes that were currently doing something complicated. The particular figure of someone who had spent years being looked at and had learned to hold it.
He was not looking at her the way people usually looked at her.
He was looking at her face.
"Are you okay?" he said. Still the first question. Always.
Her internal monologue, which had been running at considerable speed since he'd appeared on the beach, produced the following in rapid sequence:
