Zephyr can refuse. He's done it. But, it's seldom he's been proud of himself over it. And right then? He's got no reason.

He reaches- not out, since she's so close. He traces his fingers over the place at the edge where the flight feathers first come in; where they're small and they should pick, but Molly's don't. They hold the lines they should to make her fly if she's a bird, but they're impossibly silky. And they leave a sense like sunshine somewhere underneath his skin.

"I ah. Didn't mean to bullshit you about this," he says, wiggling his thumb so the silver on his skin winks out.

Of course, in the same instant, he nips Molly's wing. She even tastes like sunshine, he thinks.