It had — maybe, just maybe — been a topic of idle consideration and speculation, in the back of her mind, every so often. A sort of off-hand thought the first time she saw him getting changed, hauling his shirt off in their room. The elf was smaller and less-bearded than she was used to, but still packed with enough lean pragmatic muscle that her head had turned.

He knows his way around a knife and a bow and the animals. All their time spent hunting and camping and not minding each others’ presence, telling each other stories instead of reading them. She had contemplated it, in stray moments when she was bored and in want of distraction.

So, in the end, perhaps it’s inevitable.

Talin pulls her to him and kisses her; and Astrid is just as quick and responsive, not bothering with playing coy. She scrambles into his lap to get closer, knees settling either side of his thighs, her hands catching at Talin’s jaw; the kiss is open-mouthed and greedy, her tongue against his. The ground is cold beneath them, but for the moment she just wants to be touching him and being touched in turn.