"No one else. Except our furry chaperone," Marina confirms, and with Kyra getting closer, that's a dangerous promise. She can feel it, and yet, when she steps backwards into the room, she doesn't use it as a chance to add some space. It's just fingers on fingers. (And a diminishing space between.) There's no harm in that.. right? She curls her fingertips against Kyra's palm, urging her to follow. It's not fire, but there's still heat, butterflies.

The sofa seems like a good landing place. She hovers near an arm, watching Kyra, careful to take cues from her, even as she dearly just wants to become a tangle of limbs. Talking.. is a distraction, though her question isn't as innocent in its affection as it could be. "How're you feeling, fuzz head?"