Geralt knew the smell of arousal, but kept silent about it, though his breathing deepened. They needed to have a talk, he knew that. It was the responsible thing to do, and Geralt was a responsible man, to the point that Dandelion often thought of him as a moralist.

He worked on getting his codpiece and trousers off, his boots, which his feet were still fairly sloshing in. He left everything in its corner to dry, before putting on a dry white blouse, and a pair of black sleep pants.

He leaned on the kitchen doorway, feeling warm and comfortable and boneless, and stared at Nina. His face had gotten what little color it had back, and his eyes had once again returned to feline slits, under the kitchen lights.

"Hey," he said.