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It's still so odd to see Neuvillette so tranquil, so vulnerable. Head tilted away from Kaeya, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, pale hair splayed so pretty (and somehow, still so neatly) over silk pillowcases.
But Kaeya far from minds. Could get used to this, in fact, and hopes he is now given the chance, if Neuvillette allows.
He slides a palm over Neuvillette's bare skin, decorated with the occasional patch of hardened flesh. Not scales, not anymore. Kaeya's hand stops; lingers, over Neuvillette's heart. He tracks each beat, each confirmation that this, Neuvillette, is real. Breathing. Mortal.