He hesitates, pulling away to study her face. His hands move to brush fingers along her ribs. Smooth; not a surgeon's hands, but the even, thin callouses of a musicin. They work down, over the planes of her belly. It's cool, from exposure to the air outside.

"Greg," he rasps, licking at his dry lips. "My name's Greg. But I don't use it."

Gripping her waist, he lifts her up and onto the corner of her bed. His leg may be damaged, but his upper body is all the stronger for the weakness below, and he's no small man.