Harrow's discomfort takes a different form when Gideon pulls her hands away and stands up again, the water pattering noisily from her body and her sodden underthings. She doesn't turn to watch her fumble for a towel, staying still and curled forward again, wrapped in on herself in the dark. Words claw at her throat, things that might call Gideon back and that are too bare, too childishly helpless, to say. She lets her mouth be a prison, locks them tight behind the clench of her teeth, and soon they subside into nearly nothing again.

"That's fine. I won't be much longer," she says after a minute. "Turn the light on as you leave."