Andy could not have cared less if everyone on the island knew they were fucking, because Booker was theirs and he'd finally realized that again. She would always, always accept that, and for a long moment as both their bodies relaxed and cooled Andy just brushed her hand over his back, nuzzling his shoulder with quiet, reassuring words in Occitan. She loved the way the language sounded out of Booker's mouth.

"Mmmm. You're perfect," she murmured in his ear, her free hand coming up and combing through the ends of his hair. "Love you, Booker," she whispered, words just between them once they'd both recovered enough to actually manage making sense.