Catra's fingers twitch against the hard lines of Adora's hard stomach, disbelieving still. She's frozen in the moment, every muscle tense and aching.

And then Adora asks her, and finally, Catra can move.

"Okay," she whispers; hoarse. Her hand moves blindly, across Adora's heated skin, until she finds the dip between her stomach and hipbone, the same place Adora's thumb had stroked her the night before, and her trembling fingers repeat the movement, cautiously keeping her claws from scratching. She is -- she is touching Adora, in the way that clearly bypasses friendly intent. Adora wants her to touch her like this. "Are--are you sure?"

If she says no now, Catra really doesn't know what she'll do.