Harris cocoons Agatha in their embrace and silence, until she lifts her head and reaches for his lips.

"I love you too, Harris. Love you without harboring illusions you're perfect. Without a promise of a grand and frightening destiny. But I still love you so darn much! It's liberating to love a guy."

She shrugs, as if she's helpless, and he parts his lips to welcome a kiss.

"I'm done with perfection altogether," he says into the kiss. "Always believed my parents' marriage was perfect, and it turned out to be a flawed marriage of two flawed people, like everyone else. But you know what? I love them anyway."

Her arms wrap around his neck. "We're alone here. Finally alone."

Catching her drift, he shuts his eyes to everything but her kisses.

Worries, fears, the past... all gone. Agatha is kissing him. There are all kinds of kisses bundled together. Long and exploratory. Short and breathy. Even a tiny flicker of her tongue over his lips that makes him laugh.

Meanwhile, his hands caress her back. Through the layers of dizzying elation he's aware that he can't feel anything artificial underneath the silky, stretchy fabric of her dress. Her hand moves against his stomach, loosening the knot of her wrap-around dress.

When the next kiss rocks to a stop, he opens his eyes. Agatha's dress gapes at the front, showing a thin, pink strip of her skin from her chin to her knee. The only interruption is a dark arrow of hair between her thighs. "Agatha—"

The gap in the fabric widens as she rolls her hip. Her breasts slip out, tipped pink, pointed, like the tongue that has just teased his lips. The view shortens out most of his circuits, redirecting emergency power where he needs it the least for thinking. He grows so stiff, it almost hurts.

"You're trying to ask me if I'm sure," she says with a wry smile. "It's all over your face."

He presses the pink pebble with his fingers until Agatha arches her upper back to let the dress slip down her shoulders. His tongue traces her sternum to the tiny hollow at the base of her neck.

"This..." he moans, "can't be... the only thing that shows."

"Nope. Your eyes are so, so huge! Like saucers. I'm loving it!"

Basically, a moan is the extent of his verbal capacity, and it's pushing it. He figures, it covers how he feels.

"I'm absolutely sure," Agatha whispers into his ear. "I want everything you talked about in Singapore. Hookup... dating... messing up sometimes... making up... a relationship, Harris."

With a seductive agility, she wrists out of the sleeves of her dress. Has she just said his eyes were like saucers? Well, they ought to be dinner-plate sized now, if not like platters for Thanksgiving turkey.

Her giggles send goosebumps down her bare arms. He rubs them for her, finding her mouth again afterwards. Or in process. The caresses blend in into one blissful thing for him.

"Sweetie, I'm not questioning your judgment, but you've survived some heavy stuff."

"You are questioning my judgment."

Okay, maybe. But it's for a good cause. A bit of a cooldown, before hitting it hot and heavy.

"R-regardless, we'll need PPE." He isn't sure how closely she listened when they were touring the station. "Ah, Personal Protective Equipment—I mean, if you want to make love."

"If you're attempting to find a euphemism for condoms, there are a few inside the nightstand. Do you want to see the bedroom by the way?"

All he could do is to gather Agatha into his arms, carry her across the living room and into the hall with two doors.

"This one," she points. "The other one is a study or a hobby room, basically whatever you want it to be."

Finding a hobby is the last thing on his mind.

He opens the bedroom door with his heel and whirls Agatha in.

Cream, white and antique gold reign supreme. The carpet is thick enough to absorb Formula One level of noise. There's three layers of curtains cascading from the windows in ruffles. Past the king-sized bed, a door to the ensuite shows off gleaming mirrors, wide tiles and a lion-legged bathtub.

Harris lowers Agatha onto the bed between the brightest things in the room before she was there—the decorative cushions. They pale next to her, as everything does.

The curve of her hip and waistline makes her every move sinuous, ricocheting to him with an extra jolt of desire. He sits at the edge and pulls the drawer out a crack as inconspicuous as possible.

"Good Lord!"

He rubs his flushing face, and it's no use, because even his ears heat as he shuffles the crinkling packs like a stack of cards. His clumsy fingers spill them over the top of the nightstand, some—on the floor, and a few—back into the drawer.

"Good Lord, I hope mom didn't order this along with the lampshades."

Agatha giggles. "Nope, that's on me. I was waiting to go pick you up at the hospital. And, you know? Fantasized."

"I can only hope I'll live up to your idea of my virility."

"What, too much?" She looks concerned.

"No. No. It's better than running out." Good thing latex's shelf life is a few months.

Agatha peels off the covers from the bed, revealing pristine satin underneath. It heats his ears even more to think it'll be crumpled soon. She settles on the sheets cross-legged. Nude.

He crawls toward her and filters her hair through his fingers, picking out the hair-clips. His lips trace her neck. She fumbles at his waist to grasp the bottom of his t-shirt and pull it up.

"Careful with the bandages," he warns her softly. "It's tender around the edges."

She finds them with her hand under the shirt, stretches the cotton as much as possible to roll the fabric over without snagging. Her hand lingers on his back and side, the palm cooling his tingling skin. Her gaze softens. "I want to kiss you better."

He eases on his back. Closes his eyes and tracks the progress of her lips. Feels her fingers twirl into the hair on his chest, then lower, miss the smoother belly button area, then tag the zipper on his jeans.

Then she stops with a whistling breath. "It's funny isn't it? For our gen, there's no mystique in this. The internet is overflowing with sex, sex and more sex. Our grannies had been to Woodstock. Full frontal on cable doesn't even phase anyone. And yet, somehow..."

Her voice trails off. The zipper stays unzipped. He misses her touch. "It's okay if the mood is gone. We aren't on a tight schedule demanding to get on with it tonight."

He opens his eyes and looks straight at her. Her gaze flickers to his midsection and an amazing shade of pink, that of flamingo wings and May roses, climbs up her slender throat. "Me: I want you. Also me: But I'm shy. How?"

He manipulates her until she's cuddled next to him and pulls just the sheet over both of them, since a blanket would turn the bed into a furnace with all the heat he's emanating. At some point, he'd really need to peel his jeans off, but at the moment? To hell with the discomfort!

"Sure, we're savvy. We know our birds-and-bees, the risks and have more advice on how to max out the pleasure than you can shake a stick at."

Her fingers curl around... well, he didn't mean that stick, but he'll take it.

"We also can imagine in advance how deep the intimacy goes. It's literally being together. Naked." He plucks a strand of her hair and tickles her breast to illustrate. "Nothing hidden. A blend... it makes you more vulnerable than anything else in regular life."

She releases his penis and rubs the hair on his chest.

"Anyway, it's a pick one situation, once you realize it. Shield yourself and make it all about physical satisfaction. Easy-peasy. Or you open up to someone, accept the vulnerabilities to love and be loved... Well, that's scary when you think of all the risks."

"And so—nervous?"

A smile tugs his lips. "You're so clever."

She presses herself even tighter against him, whispers his name into his ear with a hot, rapid breath. He could feel her heart going miles an hour.

"Harris, under this broody exterior of yours, there's a gentle heart." She rolls onto his chest, nose to nose, until they rub. "You're such a tender softie."

"Shhh. Not so loud! Others may hear my deepest secret."

"Actually, I was going to cover it in a podcast tomorrow. Just how adorable, and sweet—ah!"

He whips her back onto the bed, a loving version of a throw. Lifting himself on his left elbow, he wiggles his fingers around her belly button. "You won't! You wouldn't dare!" He doesn't bring Oliver into this sweet moment.

Agatha falls back laughing till she is out of breath. "I would too! I have two hours of material at least on how wonderful—"

"I'll tickle you until you give it up."

"Knock yourself out! I'm not ticklish in the slightest!"

"Everyone's ticklish. You only need to find where... still nothing?" His hand departs her belly button and tickles her ribs and her belly, her chin, the inverse of her elbow, and all over the place. She laughs so hard, he's thinking about implementing the honor system.

He watches her face so intently; he notices the first stir of something new, while she hasn't caught up yet. He pauses, then moves his hand lower. "Here?" His voice drops an octave.

She still laughs, but her intakes of breath deepen, curious.

"Tell me if you want me to stop." His index finger brushes the puff, slips over the lip and tickles the hollow between her thighs. He changes the tickling to circling, wandering inside, searching for Agatha's secret.

Once he is there, there's a small shiver of response from her, a tentative moan. It's half-wonder, half-surprise.

"Yes, this is how it feels."

With absolute fascination, he watches pleasure radiate through her body. The satisfaction of bringing it on charges him up so much, sweat beads his forehead. He bites his lips, holds himself back to not overshadow her fresh experience.

He could feel the tiny quivers under his fingertip, sees her lips part, her tongue run them over, seeking moisture, and hears the cadence of her voice nobody has heard before. "Harris?"

Before he replies, her arms tug him on top.

"Shh, slow down," he whispers. "A little... a little at a time... " But his jeans are already traveling south and taking his underwear along for the ride. No, no gun in his pants, he's just this happy to be with Agatha.

He's really grateful that for once he didn't stack the things neatly. He palms the closest packet from the nightstand and pins down her rising hips. A little at a time... just a little. He's dissolving, and it's her doing.

Then comes the moment he's pontificated about a few minutes ago. What an ignorant fool he was! He's only guessed at how it would feel. Now he knows. It's devastatingly sweet. Stripped of every defense. Absolutely vulnerable. Intimate. In love. So much in love. He cries as he climaxes, and he wouldn't have stopped the tears from falling if he could.