Google also says she ought to lie still for a while, which for Andy is like trying not to scratch a full-body case of poison ivy. Sam slips the salty tips of her fingers into his mouth. "McNally," he says slowly, getting an arm around her waist, pulling her closer--that works on her sometimes, full-body contact, both of them warm and loose.

"Hm?" She fidgets a little, dark eyes flicking up at him, but Sam doesn't actually have much of a follow-up--he thinks maybe he just wanted to say her name.

("We're gonna be great," he mutters again, as much to himself as to Andy, and he palms the flat expanse of her belly until she falls asleep.)