"Much better," comes his easy agreement, glancing sidelong at Astrid.

She's bought his story easily, and why wouldn't she? She has no reason to suspect him of deception, no reason to wonder at his loyalty. For the rest of this assignment, he'll be safe from further questions, he's confident of that.

But if he trips up elsewhere. If someone else has reason to suspect him. Astrid has a story of a routine check that took longer than it should, and for a competent spymaster that could be more than enough to put pieces together. This is a loose end that needs to be tied off.

Talin angles himself to face her more fully. They've never been as averse to touch as city folk seem to be, both of their cultures more free with contact than that, but there are still lines. Delineations between normal, friendly contact and contact with purpose. Intent. He hasn't touched her hair before, her neck. Her shoulders.

He brushes her hair, wild and loose, from her shoulder. Trails his fingers deliberately over the barely-visible scrap of her neck not covered by her winter furs. His eyes on her, when she meets them, are hot and inviting. His hand lingers on her back, between her shoulder blades.

"I like it when it's literal, too."