River lets her chin down onto his brown hair, resting her lower jaw as though about to set an animal free into those wilds of deepest darkest field mouse. Her fingers snake over his arm, guiding his muscles until he is forced to turn his head to look where they are pointing together.
Two towers in the distance. Singing. The end of her, then.
An involuntary shudder takes him; her warm hands catch the feathering sunlight all the way down as it plays along his backside in an undecided halo.
He feels warmer.
“It’s your dream, beloved…” she murmurs at his ear, into his brains, melting like white chocolate with bits in as the dense bright heat is shoving between them, the words effecting the gleam off a cold sausage tin, “… you tell me. But this is where I get off. See you soon, and thank you for the screwdriver.”
A kiss becomes a nibble at his ear, teeth chattering to a different drummer’s resonance.
He gives her a hand down the lumps of rock, sighing only when her flesh has long abandoned his fingers, and the scent of her perfume is a bookend against the dawn spilling over the empty space where the towers were standing.
And so she leaves him, like a photograph.
He sighs again.
Perhaps later, he’ll try for a smile.