I accepted his answer with a “hmm” and absentmindedly kissed his forearm, which was crossed over my chest from beneath my neck. His whole arm made a comfortable and protective pillow despite everything, and I traced his hardened muscles with my fingers, admiring the smooth skin without more marks than one or another small scar, without any hair at all.
“…I suppose he doesn’t live hundreds of years either.”
“And you suppose very well. The oldest of ours ever documented lived one hundred and eighteen years, with great luck. It’s not like we are very prolific either, because our women often have trouble conceiving; but we put a lot of enthusiasm into the matter,” he commented with a small laugh. He always explained whatever I wanted to know about his people very willingly; he liked talking
