He tilts his head, his bottom lip caught between his teeth, briefly absorbed by the play of shadows and cloth against Alecto's pale skin, softly illuminated by the last few rays of evening sun. He doesn't even notice the way his own fingers go slack, letting Alecto's fine shirt fall to the floor with an uncharacteristic carelessness.

"The chaise by the west window," he says decidedly, still not stepping back, his fingers busy now with Alecto's belt. "The light is best there."