“So, um,” Dawn says, affectedly casual, “I should hold it like this, right?”

She can feel Connor behind her, the heat of his body pressing against her back like a wave of fire, and his hands slide from the sharp bones of her elbows to her delicate wrists. “No, you have to-” and he shifts her hold on the sword a little. “Like that.”

“Uh-hunh,” Dawn agrees, and almost drops the sword because she’s too busy staring at his hands on hers and thinking of what it’ll feel like when he kisses her to listen properly. Or, you know, have much in the way of basic motor functions.

“If you let it fall,” Connor warns, “It’ll take your toes off, at least.”

“Sure,” she says, and his exasperated huff of breath warms the nape of neck. She shivers, and he yanks the sword away from her, leans it against the wall.

“What is *wrong* with you?” he wants to know. “Sword too heavy for your-”

She cuts him off mid-mock by touching her lips to his, and goes into a state of full-on battle-stations panic in the moment it takes him to respond. Then his mouth is hot against hers, and his hands are in her hair, and it’s utterly and completely perfect.