She leans into the embrace. She loves them. If anybody had to read her at least it's them. Maybe she can hold together with the privacy she'll get when they're sleeping. She'll miss them, probably - certainly - but she can live with missing people, even these people. (She thinks. She'd have to write to be sure. Will she be able to do that when they both sleep? They'll still be able to see anything she chances to remember having written but it won't have the immediate sting. Maybe if she can write anyway, around that, she'll be all right.)

She doesn't understand how the reading can be so pervasive. She doesn't feel like she has more attention to spare than she ever did, or as though - outside of hyperfocus - other things are being neglected. But there they are, background hum of love-attention-invasion, like they can't even look away, try though they might. She needs just a moment - she takes a breath and concentrates, lets it out, concentrates, inhale, exhale, and that's all, she just needed a little break, a moment away, where she might not be doing anything productive but she wasn't conscious of being watched at it.